I’m Gonna Sit Right Here

I have talked about and written a lot about my friend Homer Munoz who died on May 6, 2007 at 1:30 in the morning after missing a stop sign and flipping his truck into a ditch. I will probably write about him every single year on this day for the rest of my life.

The more years that pass, the more I realize what it was about Homie exactly that made me love him so much. He treated me like a person. Of all the assholes that I was sleeping with and the men that I knew, he was the only one who ever looked at me like a sister and not someone he could sleep with. He wasn’t innocent or gay either. He had the world’s worst case of beer goggles ever. I used to sit at my bar and point out the girl he would go home with at the end of the night and he would say “Hell, no, not even” and then after 5 beers and 3 shots, guess who he was going out the door with at 2:15? Yep, the girl that I pointed to in the first place. He would text me in the morning and say “I hate you”.

So, it wasn’t that he didn’t objectify women or sleep around, it was that he didn’t objectify ME. That doesn’t make it ok that he did sleep with other girls, but really, Homie wasn’t a douche. He tried to be a decent guy and when it came to our friendship, he was the best decent guy that had ever entered into my life besides my sons.

This year, as I sit here listening to this Luke Bryan song on repeat I am not sad. My heart does not ache, and I am not crying. I feel like shit about that. I want to cry. I feel like laughing today and not crying means that I have forgotten all the times that we had together. Like the time that I bailed that fool out of jail. He had warrants and didn’t know that so when someone broke into his truck and stole his sound system, he did what anyone would do: he called the cops. Instead of them trying to find out who broke into his truck, they hauled his butt to jail.

He called me, the queen of getting out of jail, to bail him out. Fun times.

For the first time in 7 years, I can smile when I think about that instead of end up in a pile on the floor gasping for breath and begging God to please bring him back.

I have walked around with that wound for so long that I have no idea how to exist without it. And when did it heal? I don’t know. I am pretty sure that I saw a John Deer tractor the other day and sobbed thinking of him. But I’m not sure.

I can’t cry. So I’m just gonna sit right here, and drink a beer.