One year ago I lost my best friend.
Heart attack, they said.
And that he screamed for help.
One year ago I received this email.
Robert would have wanted you to read it.
I wish you would have called.
I miss you, Rob.
My friends, I really hope you get this. I hope that this is all just some sort of bout of insanity, but if not, if something happens to me or if you don’t hear from me by tomorrow, I want you to go to the police and show them this email. Tell them that they were wrong. And please, if you can, forward this email to as many people as possible.
This is not a joke; at least I really think it isn’t. I’m not pranking you; I swear to everything I hold dear that this is not a prank. If you get this email I thought about calling you, but I hope that this is all over in the morning. I hope that this is just something special about this night. And if it is, please forget about it or make fun of me; I don’t even care.
I’m sitting in the Walker’s joint near the motorway, the one that’s open all night and busy all night, because the last thing I want to be is back on the street. Continue reading