Page 5.

I wonder why people drink and then I think of Adam.
But my mind didn't just end up there. It never does. Briefly, here's where it came from:
The newspaper is, essentially, a tabloid. I was tipped off by Stephen Colbert's congressional hearing thing on a page (3, I think) dedicated to celebrity something or other and their individual interactions with the world. Before I got there, though, I had been reading the front page. I read half an article, turned to the page with the rest of the story and, instead, found a better-looking one.
One cover story caught my attention in a passing-interest kind of way. A 16 year-old kid had been beaten to death about a year ago and her mom was just getting over it. Cool. Furthermore, she was putting her energy towards prevention (as opposed to strictly grieving). Even better. Still no emotional attachment, though, which isn't unusual when a slightly different rendition of this tragedy can be found in a Chicago paper on a daily basis.
Then I saw it: a little half-article at the bottom of page 4.
Anyways, as it was sinking in, I got to thinking: "what would he want me to do?" Well, here's more insight: I was considering having a cigarette. Lucy hates when I smell like smoke (or have anything to do with smoke, for that matter). I felt like what's-his-name, trying to pick up girls at a funeral. 'Scumbag,' that's the word I was looking for-- trying to use a bad situation for my advantage. So that's when the question came to me: "what would he want me to do?" At first I thought about how cool of a dude he was, and how he'd tell me to stop worrying so much and smoke a damn cigarette. Then I came to my senses and thought, "he wouldn't give a damn what decision I made." See, we weren't even very good friends. In fact, "not very good friends" is still a gross exaggeration. He was.. let's see. A casual acquaintance. If we had ever seen each other in public, we may or may not have even recognized each other. Then I got to thinking about how much I think and wonder and worry about people who are, in all certainty, completely oblivious to my thoughts. Frankie didn't know I thought he was an awesome guy, worthy of admiration. Matt doesn't know how much he has impacted my life, or how I still wish I had his charisma. Uncle JP doesn't know that I try to mimic certain things he has done in his life to better my own. The list could go on forever. Although I do feel shy around people I really admire, I often feel that it is best that these sentiments be kept to myself. If I told Dot how I admired her thought-processes and loved the times we would discuss the rules of grammar, I would only cause a scene. If I told my uncle Bruce, "I understand why you drank. As much as I want to believe it was a cowardly escape from hard feelings, I am not one to judge as I barely scrape by on the decisions I make and still often teeter on the brink of making very, very awful ones," where would that get me? Where would that get him? I don't want to burden seemingly random characters in my life with the idea that I'm secretly a big fan.
I don't know. The world sickens me so terribly sometimes. Naperville might sell itself to corporate advertising. Stephen Colbert made some bad jokes in front of elected officials. A kid I knew who wasn't wasting his life being a scumbag was murdered by the hands of another kid who falsely felt entitled to an irrational jealousy.