#its not everyday i get to have 9 fucking thousand followers on a social media platform so. i wanna at least try lmao

[tianhai03]

gonna be doing a stripping game with 4dante on my twitter to celebrate 9k followers there <3

(if you have a twitter acc and would like to contribute to taking his clothes off, the tweet is here :) )

[next part here]

#i wont be counting the numbers here separately that'd just be kinda messy lmao #i will be posting all the. goals? milestones? whatever idek what to call them. every time he takes off something you'll see it here too lma #devil may cry #dante(dmc) #allyart #stripping game with 4dante #was it a good idea to do this while im still trying to do school work? definitely not. but hey #its not everyday i get to have 9 fucking thousand followers on a social media platform so. i wanna at least try lmao #im sure i'll be fine <33

[kymkral]

the eight one: Death 4/27/17

Ever wonder who will be affected when you die? I’m sure everyone has wondered this. I guess it is only natural to contemplate one’s mortality.  I’ve always been a little weird about death.  I guess we’re all a little weird about death.  What’s normal? What’s interesting about that question is there is absolutely no normal way to handle something that is, in actuality, so incredibly normal.  Death.  The only thing that is certain in this life.  We will all eventually be leaving it.  Period.  We all die it is just a matter of when. Some get to live a long, long time-maybe too long.  Some die almost immediately after taking their first breath.  And though the latter situation is so much more heartbreaking, death always comes with so much heartbreak.  Every single time.  When someone dies, no matter who they are, someone, somewhere mourns them.

I’ve experienced, what I think, is a lot of death in my lifetime.  I’m thinking about this now because I lost a friend a few days ago.  Friend. That seems so odd to me.  I never really actively considered this person a friend until I got the news that he had passed away.  Well, more accurately drunkenly flipped over his car on the freeway (which is heartbreaking in-and-of itself, so senseless and so avoidable, but I digress.) He was a regular at the bar I work at and we had developed a friendship over the last year.  Paul Johnson.  Paul was in his 30’s, a tall African American man with a bit of an afro and a smile that completely lit up a room.  A smile that you will never forget.  He just beamed every time he came into my bar.  We’d chat about my comedy and my ever-changing dating life.  He’d give advice and we laughed.  We laughed a lot. He even came out to support a few of my comedy shows. Yet I had never considered Paul a friend until his passing.  Or I guess a better way to say it is I never really thought about it.

Then a few days after Paul, I got news of another friend’s passing.  Friend.  Same thing.  I haven’t seen or spoken to Izzy in over a decade.  I knew that she had cancer and followed her recovery on social media but never reached out.  She was in her mid 30’s, wild curly dirty blonde hair, a nose that only can be described as having “a lot of character” and a beautifully unique singing voice.  Izzy, like Paul, had touched my life in a way that I never really thought of until I got word that her cancer finally took its toll. 

I was about 22 when Izzy and I first met. I had just moved to Los Angeles.  I was full of wonder and doubt, and had yet to fully work through the wreckage of my childhood.  I drove her home one breezy Los Angeles winter night, and I confessed that I had no idea what the fuck I was doing.  I didn’t know if my dreams would ever come to fruition or if I actually wanted them to.  Maybe I didn’t deserve it.  I cried in her arms, where I felt so vulnerable and comfortable-something I hadn’t really felt in the duration of my 22 years.  She had this calm about her, this special quality that made my defenses fall to the wayside enough to tell a near stranger how fucking scared I really was.  She hugged me and in the simplest way told me that it was going to be all right, that I would figure it all out.  That was it.  So simple. And now, whenever I find myself struggling with life, I always think back to that night and am comforted. I cry as I type this, knowing I never did tell Izzy how much that conversation shaped me, how much she shaped me. 

I went to Paul’s vigil Thursday, along with about 30 other of his friends. I looked around and wondered how Paul had touched each of their lives. I had never been to a vigil, had only seen the aftermath of a few, with their old candles and dead flowers.  It was bizarre.  Everyone needs to mourn in his or her own way, I guess.  I stood there watching all of these people hugging and crying and writing notes and I couldn’t help but wonder how many of them loved Paul the way I had but had never really thought about it.  He lit up my day every time he came in, which was almost all of my shifts, and now I wonder if that was on purpose.  Had I touched his life in someway, the way he had mine? Had he ever given it much thought? If the tables were turned and I suddenly died would he be moved to tears and heartbreak the way I had. 

It made me wonder, what random person I see everyday, have I affected and have never really thought about.  I have lost so many people in this life.  Though I know it’s going to happen to all of us, it is something I don’t think I’ll ever get used to, I don’t think any of us do.

The first person I remember losing was my great grandmother Leach. She was old.  I don’t remember much about her because I was young and had very little interest in getting to know this lady. Hey, I was like 9, what the hell did the two of us have in common?  I remember she was little, very little.  She had white hair, thin, round rim glasses and just the kindest smile.  And SO Irish.  My dad told me the news of her passing in a matter a fact way, like I was an adult and I had dealt with death a thousand times before.  He even expected me to handle it like I had a thousand times before.  Which at this point you shouldn’t be surprised with all you know about that man. 

Great grandma Leach was the first dead body I had ever seen.  That is literally all I can recall from the funeral.  I was in third grade.  I do know that she was talked about long after her death and that she touched so many people in her 90 plus years.

Then Keith died.  Keith was my Uncle John’s “friend”.  He spent holidays with us and celebrated our birthdays.  He was probably in his 20s, blonde hair, handsome with what I remember to be a southern twang.  He died suddenly in his car.  Something about a ruptured organ. When I was old enough I never asked for the details, as it always seems like it was still too sad of a subject for my Uncle John.

Right before Keith’s funeral my dad revealed that Keith was not just a friend but also Uncle John’s boyfriend.  “Uncle John is gay.”  It was the early 90’s and my father was a conservative, somewhat religious man, who made it seem like it was somewhat of a shameful thing.  I remember the shame I felt and I still have guilt over those feelings.  I was young and had no other reference other than what my father had told me.  In case you’re wondering my dad got over his homophonic views, learned I guess, and he and John became extremely close until my dad passed away. 

Though I don’t remember much about Keith, I will never forget him. He still remains a member of our family that we lost so long ago.  I wonder if anyone told him how much he meant to the Krals?

Then high school came and too many kids in my class died. Marc White hung himself my sophomore year.  I had known Marc since kindergarten and though we grew into separate groups, him being way popular and me being, well, way not popular, we always remained friends.  He was tall and handsome, mocha skin with deep brown eyes.  It happened over the weekend and we all got the news on Sunday night.  His suicide devastated my high school.  Not only was he kind to the skinny nerdy girl who was missing the better part of her teeth (me), he was that way towards everyone.  I have never in my life seen so many people at a funeral, maybe 200. I wonder if he were alive now who he’d be.  If someone had gotten to him and stopped him, let him know just how many people loved him.  I don’t think I ever told him how much his friendship meant to me.  Not a week goes by in the last 20 years that I don’t wish I had.

Then a kid named Andy died of cancer.  He wasn’t well known at all and his death created little to no ripples at our school.   A kid named Brandon flipped his car on the freeway while having an epileptic seizure. He was just as unknown; I was supposed to sit by him at graduation.  Then a kid who relentlessly made fun of me, Luke, hung himself shortly after Marc did, in some sort of suicide pact.  I wonder who these kids would have been if they were alive still.  I’m friends with Luke’s older brother on facebook and often wonder how Luke’s suicide has affected his everyday life.

Then junior year came, the year of the Columbine massacre, and a girl that I had known since elementary school was killed in the historic tragedy.  She had transferred to Columbine from my high school.  I saw her that year at the Columbine’s homecoming game; I take solace in the fact that I had never seen her happier.  Every time I hear the song “Dreams” by The Cranberries I think of the time we were on the bus on the way to Carmody Junior High School, dancing and giggling away to it, and her saying she loved listening to that song and getting drunk on M&M’s.  I smile and listen to it in its entirety when I hear it now, no matter where I am, and wonder what an awesome adult she would have been.

I moved to Los Angeles when I was 21 and have buried half a dozen friends I have made here.  Margaret, a 60 year old African American woman that everyone so lovingly called “cookie” who taught me about how important it was to be kind to our earth.

Lisa, or “Chipper” as everyone called her died in her early 30s of cancer. She was the first person to ever tell me that I was smart. 

Robert Murray, an African American man who was in his early 50’s died in his sleep from complications that were never really disclosed.  Robert was lovingly referred to as everyone’s “Uncle” in comedy.  He was a loving man who supported every last comic in a room.  Always smiling.

Lorelei, who was transitioning, took her life suddenly, due to hormone complications and regulations.  She was so brave and loving and funny.  I met her as Brandon and have some solace knowing she got to live her final days as the woman she was born to be. 

Then Lonnie, who was a sergeant dad to so many of us in LA, died of a heart attack. He drank way too much PBR and played all of the bar trivia he could get his hands on.  He’s still a legend in most bars across LA, known as “The Banker”. He was tall, a man with a chuckle that you couldn’t forget.  Lonnie made so many of us “orphans” in Los Angeles feel like we weren’t alone.  Lorelei and Lonnie came just before and after my father passed away. It was a rough month.

Then came Paul and Izzy, and I was reminded all over again just how short it all is.  It could be over in an instant, and when it is over, if you did it right, (hell, even if you didn’t) it will leave a path of broken hearts in its wake.  All these people touched my life in a different way and yet each one taught me to love, taught me to be kind, taught me to stand up for those who couldn’t, taught me to stand up for myself, go after my dreams and so much more. As I sit here and type this I can’t help but tear up, some sad tears, sure, but mostly happy tears.  I am filled with the utmost of gratitude to have had them stop by my life, if only for a little while.  I can only hope that I touched their lives, even if it was a fraction of the amount that they touched mine.

#death cancer love transgender losangeles awareness hope