I knew that Fuck would kill himself. I just didn't expect it to be Saturday night. Things had been going really well for him. On Friday night, we laughed and talked and played games and talked about him hitting his stride. I had told him before that I thought he was bipolar and perhaps even schizophrenic. He said he had considered that before.

He was a genius. A biologist with his PhD. A college professor. He was dark and negative. Paranoid. Handsome. Hilarious. Fun. Dangerous. Depressing. Exhausting. Kind. Generous. A very good friend. Dramatic. Charismatic. Creative. An artist. A pain in the ass.

I just finished looking through his 40-page suicide letter, which he began years ago. There was nothing really new there. Apparently, I had the most intimate knowledge of him. He selectively disseminated information about himself to people, and I guess he chose to tell me the most since, in the aftermath, I'm the one who has the most comprehensive view of him.

The coroner told me they wouldn't have the toxocology report for two weeks. I told her what he died from and what cocktail of drugs they would find in his system: morphine, percoset, vicadan, xanax, syroquil, marijauna, alcohol, welbutrin. I know how he did it. He used the morphine. Probably took the entire bottle. Besides, that was really all he had enough of to kill himself.

What causes me the most grief is all the calls and text messages from him. That he pulled me in at the last minute. It's hard not to question myself - feel guilty - like he reached out to me and I didn't help him. It would be a little easier to swallow if I just found out he was dead, but knowing that he asked me to come get him... I knew he would eventually commit suicide. I just wish he wouldn't have pulled me into it. He knew I couldn't come - I was working and I had a crying woman in my car that I was comforting. I couldn't drop everything I was doing to rush to him. To find out if this time he was for real.

He was for real. Bastard.