I met Todd at a party on Stansbury Island in the fall of 2008, if memory serves. We talked some, exchanged phone numbers. Some months later, we got together and walked to Liberty Park and he took some pictures of me to post on my various online profiles. Sunday, while I was stuck in a hotel room in Denver, I posted one of those pictures as my main profile picture on Facebook. And then today, he killed himself.
Angry? You bet I am. This does not need to happen. This is stupid. Pointless. A complete fucking waste. A WASTE!
This is a consequence of people taking their fucking stories and making them the fucking truth. Fuck your truth, and fuck you. And fuck the god who spoke to Spencer Kimball and Boyd Packer, and fuck both of them too.
And this is gossip because it’s only going to be read by people who can’t do anything about it.
And even if they did, they’d just find a way to justify their position, make me wrong, make themselves right, blame Todd for the things that they did to him.
This could just as easily have been me. I have every reason in the world to join Todd in discarding the physical. You know why I don’t? Me either. That’s choice for you. Being alive is a really unreasonable thing to do. I am an unreasonable person.
And I will be re-arranging my life in the immediate future so as to ensure that I don’t have undue amounts of time to myself. So don’t worry. Or do worry, but do something constructive with it.