Robyn to the Bartender
No More Dreams of Picket Fences
Dear Bartender,
I know it is possible you didn't know, that you still don't. If you did, you killed me. I just died yesterday. I was really sick, and held on for as long as I could. I had AIDS. I got it from you. You are probably thinking that it was someone else, or of some other way to avoid responsibility or guilt. You're the only person it could have been. I should have been safe, but you wanted me to let my guard down. I no longer can dream of my white, picket fences and nuclear family. Not only because I am dead; but I no longer crave that sort of existence. I found out how I could live without being miserable about a year before I died. I made great friends, whom I adored. My best friend, Jane, well, I am in love with her. I didn't have enough time. I want more time. I want to see Holly's baby grow up, and Jane as a god-mother. I want my mother to visit me, I want to comfort her, I want her to have a child left. I hope you get to experience as much as I did. Maybe you are getting sick. Maybe not. Either way, you, like me, are going to die of AIDS. I'm as sorry for you as I am that I cannot spend this time with the people I love. I wish you hadn't given it to me. But nobody deserves that pain. Please get tested, if you don't already know. You could be a serial killer by now if you haven't; I can't have that. Live responsibly, enjoy what you can. I wish I could
Robyn R.I.P.