Dear Dawna,

    When I stumbled on your memorial page I wanted to cry instantly. Was too scared and shocked though to do it. You actually have a FUCKING memorial page. Like when one googles people they would expect to find a) nothing b) some college web page c) some embarassing party pictures. Not a fucking memorial page. And not some cheesy poems on a Mental Health Association page....

    You were one of the coolest persons I ever met. You were one of my only two friends from the US. You adopted me in your weird world, with candy-fights and mock LSD. And I remembered recently that on your mirror it was written "nobody knows I am on Prozac". AND I THOUGHT IT WAS A DAMN GOOD JOKE.

I remember your large jeans, your pink transylvania t shirt and your red hair. That you once died black. With a marker. Because you wanted to. And the coke-can-ring necklace. Or beer. And your scream that woke up the whole neighbourhood, when I dragged my tired body to the highschool. And our song, the plans for our song you FUCKED UP BITCH, HOW COULD YOU HAVE DONE THAT?????? What about our song, what about the "are you dead yet, Banana???". And the UV lamp in your closet to breed pot plants. And the five cigarettes you gave me, when I was forbiden to smoke at home. And your water bed. And your wicked smile and your frown. And the day you played "Greensleaves" for me, like it was nothing. And your image that you're a looser, when in fact everybody knew you were briliant. Your ease to learn...
    And then I left. I think I never used your e-mail address. You called me at wicked hours, on the other continent. Told me you skipped highschool and went on to become a secretary. That you were still doing your crazy things, I remember just the "I slept around with a bunch of people. I don't know them".

     But yeah, you were not human after all, you could break an egg in your left hand when there was "striking scientific evidence that humans cannot do that".  And I never thought you had a problem. Other then of course, you were crazy, but crazy in a funny way. In an extreme, childish and charming way. Why honey, why baby, why, you fucking fucking slut? Now I don't know weather to love you or hate you. Or to admire you. What have they done to you? Truly now, what have they done to your song, honey? You were so brave, and marching so high.....

    I hope you are happy and have your rock band. And they let you paint on the mirror. And cut your hair by yourself. And that sometimes you are bored and look down.

 

Love, A.