Prefice: in case you don’t know I’m poly, and came out about that last July. If you don’t like that, I don’t really care at this point since there are bigger problems in the world than that. Lita and I had mostly good times, some bad… I’m far richer for it. Now she’s gone, and I’m not about to put up any fucking pretext about this. Lita is a very special woman and I miss her, and will always miss her as well. Many others are missing her as well, I’m not special in that regard. She was pivotal in holding much of the Wallingford community together online and many will feel her loss.
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I met you around two-and-a-half years ago. We got together at the Octopus Bar at first and went from there. We were going out for almost two years. We hit some bumps along the way; it sucks.
After we broke up in July I’ve not talked to you. We saw each other’s Facebook messages and whatnot, but it’s been mostly at arm’s length. I have a habit of staying close to to the people I’ve gotten close to, you wanted distance, and that’s ok too. You were still special to me regardless the circumstances.
I thought about you all the time. Fuck, we were going out for the better part of two years. That’s a real fraction of an average human life span.
This morning I was looking at Reddit and I saw the headline “Seattle Police investigating homicide in Wallingford.” I clicked through to the KOMO new article. Wallingford is a big place, relatively speaking. 43rd St. Fuck. Right next to Stone. Double fuck.
And my heart sank. I looked at the pictures and I saw the front of your house and it was immediate.
I saw the porch we would hang out on. I saw the jars you used for canning with the police next to them. I saw the rocking chair I would sit on. You always wanted a rocking porch friend. You had that tattoo on your arm of a rocking chair, for that very reason.
“38 year-old female” the article went on… FUCK.
I went to work a bit dazed. I stayed long enough to hand off some of the stuff I was working on. This wasn’t a day I was going get anything done.
On my way home I stopped by the house on 43rd. There was police tape in front of the stairs we would walk up.
I walked back around to the alley. The divot from my motorcycle’s front wheel was still there from the times I had parked there.
Walking back to the front one of the officers came down. We exchanged a few words. He was friendly. He offered to have to talk to the police chaplain if I needed to talk to someone. I left my number in case I could be any help.
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I’ve had people around me die. We all do; it’s part of the human condition. We expect to die of age, or the complications of age at least. Or maybe it’s an accident that takes us. You don’t expect to go around being killed by another human being.
But here we are. Or, well, here I am. I hope you’re in whatever good place you could wish for.
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Was everything perfect with us? No, of course not. Any relationship is fraught with problems. I think I’m a better person for having known you.
We went places. We followed the Columbia River from Umatilla to its mouth on the Pacific. We went up to Vancouver to see a taping of your favorite podcast, “My Favorite Murder.” No, you can’t even listen to it as a podcast because the recording was messed it. It’s the, now fabled, “lost episode.”
We had fun. We argued. We did what people did.
Hell, I fixed your toilet when it wasn’t working… even had to Dremel the spud nut off the bottom of the tank.
All silly stuff. Everyday stuff.
Even got me doing crafty stuff, like like candle holder below. I made that with you and your friends. I’m a better me — because of you.
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Waking up, it was a normal day.
Up until it wasn’t. Today was not a good day for me. Not for a lot of people you touched. You were a good person, one that I think made the world a better place. We are poorer as a result of this crime.
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I can go on and on and post picture after picture. It doesn’t change the fucked up world we live in right now.
Lita, Stay Sexy, wherever you are. ❤️