Luk Triple X. Holyfuckinshit.
I just got the news about you today.
You jumped off the Golden Gate Bridge on the first day of this year.
I’ll admit, I cussed a lot to find out. And then I cried. And then I had to pass the machine off to the nearest person because I could not look at any more missing persons-gone-now we know and you don’t want to know stories. I read two or three.
Do you know why I was looking for you today?
I found a website created by a girl in Brooklyn and she’s smart-mouthed and wild and funny, or at least she sounds that way on the internet. And she appeared to be single. And she appears to know something about code.
And I thought. Luk! These two should meet.
It’s been a minute. I don’t do the social fizzypoptalkytalk anymore and I remembered you sitting on the front porch steps with your fuzzy head over the iPhone somethingorother 5?? And you loved the scroll and we didn’t have a whole lot in common other than I was learning to program and you’d learned, and I’d applied to and interviewed at Yahoo and you’d gotten the job.
In fact, maybe one day we could have been deskmates and trolled each other.
But it didn’t work out that way.
I remember in Oakland which I now call Poakland. You’d go out way too late (by my standards) and walk around in the dark and sometimes I’d hear gunfire and wonder if you were in your room or not. Then I’d hear the familiar sounds of Grand Theft Auto 4??? And I’d know you were home and that reassured me in some weird way.
Luk, Triple X, I loved you for your quirks and your wolfthornberries and your head and shoulders and your sharing of the pizza. And it wasn’t love the way you love a lover, it was love the way you love someone doing their best, showing up each day and making their minds up to do something.
Which, I guess you did.
In the end.