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8 September 2011
I always thought Faggot seemed like a nice guy. He'd made enough money in dot-com startups to retire early, and I'd see him out on the lawn playing with his grandkids.
So, I'd wave over the hedge separating our yard and call out "Hi, Faggot!" and he'd give me a evil glare like he was trying to shoot invisible daggers out of his eyes. For some reason - and I have yet to figure out why - Faggot had a personal problem with me.
It's not that I didn't try to be neighborly. Once, I called him and said "Hey, Faggot, we're having a barbecue and I was wondering -" but Faggot just hung up on me. Honestly, it kind of hurt my feelings.
I was even the one who drove him to the hospital yesterday. He was watering his bushes, when suddenly he clutched his chest and collapsed. I shouted "Oh my God, Faggot, should I call 9-1-1?" He looked at me like he wanted to kick me in the testicles, but managed to nod yes.
One thing I can say about Faggot is that he never lost his sense of humor. When they finally checked him in at St. Mary's, I was standing by his side, holding his hand, saying "Don't worry, Faggot, just breathe, they'll patch you up really good."
And even in those horrible circumstances, Faggot still could crack a joke. Leaning up towards me, his face bright red, he snarled "My name is Darren Taggart, you fucking asshole."
Then he started clutching his chest again, and then he was gone.
Rest in peace, Faggot. You will be missed.