In the beginning, Henry and I used to go for walks together in cemeteries. We would have so much fun, too. Probably more me than him, but still. I would try to push him down hills and scare him by springing out from tombstones and I would tell him jokes and we (I) would laugh and it was just really nice to have that bonding time together. He’d teach me about moss and the flow of electricity and I would pose mind-exploding queries about fucking Siamese twins.

It was like our thing, you know? Like our habit of watching Asian horror movies before it became a cool thing to do. It was something in our relationship that I could count on. "Oh good, it’s the weekend. Time to dance on graves."

We don’t have any "things" anymore. Now, I go to cemeteries by myself. I listen to post-hardcore and screamo (and sometimes Timbaland) on my Zen and feel aggressive and then I get lost in my thoughts, which turns into contemplating doing really stupid things and puking on graves and it’s just no good. I miss having a cemetery companion.

Today I was on my way to Uniondale Cemetery and as I sat at a red light, two black guys crossed the street in front of my car. One of them looked at me, smiled real wide, and waved. I smiled back — a real, genuine smile — and thought to myself, "I bet that guy would want to have a ‘thing’ with me."

Why doesn’t Henry?

It appears cemetery photo shoots on December 25 became a tradition without me knowing it. Here’s hoping Chooch passes it down.

The rest of the set is here.