I never knew you personally and only met you a couple of times. Frankly, I felt dirty just being near you. Maybe because I knew you had a tattoo on your dick, and that is all I could ever think about. Anyway, you killed yourself. I totally understand why. You had no balance in your life, all your eggs were in one basket. Your basket broke, the eggs broke... there wasn't much left after that. Except the 16,355 people who cared about you in one way or another (according to your Facebook memorial page). Granted, most people only ever knew your work—but they feel the loss legitimately—and apparently your work was what mattered most.

I am unlucky enough that our inner circles of friends overlapped. Our social community was interwoven. Your friends (and mine) are destroyed by what you did. My heart is aching for them. My own husband called you the "champion of his dream"—and you know what he means by that. I am surrounded by deeply sorrowful, angry, confused people. It is agonizing to watch these people who I love—and thousands of strangers, too—suffer so deeply. Tell me: Did causing such an ocean of pain bring you relief? Are you resting in peace?

None of us are.