Fuck you, weather

In the grand scheme of time, Mike DeStefano and I merely passed through each other’s lives. Still, this man had a profound effect on my life, my life’s purpose, and everything I want to be. I’m not just saying that because that’s what happens when somebody dies– we make the dead guy seem grander than they were. No way. This guy was grand. A whisper from him was so loud. And he whispered that I was somebody and that I can do anything. He believed in me. And coming from a guy who was sharing his story honestly and making a living at it, that meant more than anything. And I never told him.

Regret. Regret. Regret.

Hoping that a major part of purgatory and/or dying and/or afterlife is blog reading, I’m saying it here. Everything I’m so grateful to have learned from Mike DeStefano:

Before his death:
1. If your first conversation is about the moment you decide to commit suicide and how it actually makes you happy because it’s clarifying and definitive, there’s really no need to ever talk about the weather. It now seems pretty pointless to talk about the weather with anyone. Why not just have meaningful honest communication? So what if it’s just someone you met in the elevator? Tell him about your alcoholic dad. Do it. Fuck weather. Or traffic. Or fart jokes. (Poo jokes an occasional exception).

2. There is humor in absolutely everything. Even AIDS. Because Humans are Funny. I knew that before, but it’s nice that Mike confirmed it for me.

3. When my dad killed himself, I thought him a coward. He was faced with a fork in the road, both paths seemingly helpless dead ends. He didn’t feel up to finding the magic key that would reveal another option. He just gave up. I always figured that was a conscious choice he’d made. He could have chosen to live and figure life out. For years I wondered why he didn’t just make a different choice, but part of me thought that was just my idealism speaking. Mike proved to me that it was possible: He had a Comedy Central special. And before that he was a drug counselor. And before that he was a drug addict. And before that, he was twelve (one of his jokes). He said, “Life is brutal at times. But not only can you survive it, you can turn it into something pretty cool.” And he did. And my dad didn’t. But I will.

5. We also have another conscious choice: Do we make an impact on everyone we meet or do we remain forgettable?

4. I’m so happy that I have suffered. Suffering makes the rest of life seem beautiful. Suffering takes the pain out of parking tickets and little things. Suffering is what makes us all the same.

5. Acceptance. Unattachment. It’s all possible, which is great because wanting someone to change for you is much more painful than accepting them. Even if he thought you were a douche hack comic, he wanted you to be better. Even if he saw that you just wanted to talk about weather, he knew you’d figure it out eventually. He was judgmental in his jokes only to make people more aware. When speaking at an NA meeting, he said “There’s nobody in this room that can’t achieve anything they want to achieve– unless you’re thinking of becoming a pro ball player or a stripper. Don’t be retarded about it.”

6. There’s something very sweet about a guy with a Bronx accent calling you a cunt.

7. I really don’t hate the word ‘cunt.’ It’s just a four-letter word. Why do we give it so much power? Why does the majority get so offended over so many things? Get over it. Go have an ice cream sandwich.

What I learned from Mike’s death:

1. Don’t fucking wait. How many times have we learned this lesson? I didn’t tell him how much he meant to me because I figured I would tell him later. Thanks a lot, later. You really fucked me.

2. Don’t assume. I just assumed Mike would be in my life. Assumed he would be so proud of Taboo Tales and would want to publish a story in the anthology. Assumed I would see him in NY one day. Assumed he would help me get an agent so that I could travel around to colleges and talk people out of suicide (his idea and I love it). All of those assumptions were wrong. I fucking made an ass out of you and me. Dammit.

3. Assumptions are what makes death hurt more. Because now I have to re-imagine all those events.

4. I have a new respect for Facebook. It really helped me grieve when I could see so many others also in pain. Misery loves company? No, misery loves Facebook.

5. Mike had just put on his one man show, ‘Drugs, Death, and Disease: A Comedy.’ He spent one hour on stage talking about his life and deep meaningful issues, things he learned from suffering. Issues that weren’t fighting with fart jokes to get laughs in comedy clubs. Issues that deserved a stage and an open audience. He said to his producer after the show, “I’ve said everything I’ve ever wanted to say.” He was done. He no longer needed to be on earth. How many of us can say that? How many of us can say that we’ve squeezed every bit of ourselves out? How many of us has squeezed the juice out of all our relationships? How many of us really take advantage and not for granted?

6. I am so grateful for the community here on this blog. Thank you very much for virtually holding me in your arms.

7. All comedians die early. Fuck. Was just about to start doing more stand-up. Next up: Zach Galifinakis. I feel it.

8. You can fall more and more in love with a person even after they die. Watch this short film:

And if you really want to know even more, this link leads to the entire story.

“When you give, it’s the only time you can see that you have anything…  Me being alive is a very improbable thing. Of course I give to people. I’m happy to be alive.” -Mike DeStefano