I'm not sure what I am doing here in this space that is strange to me now -- only that I need to tell something. It's about my brother. Yeah, the dead one who blew his own brains out. But it's also about my niece (or at least it's supposed to be) because yesterday was her birthday and the local family all showed. But things turned strange after the cake, ice cream and kid stuff. The toxicology report had come back and so the medical examiner's report for my brother's autopsy was complete. And it got passed around from hand to hand. At a child's birthday party. So we could all read about the gunpowder resisue on his face and hands, the burns on his temple, the graphically disgustung exit wound (that blew out the driver's side window in his truck). I hate to admit this bit of selfishness, but at least I felt good that the poor man, who was a much bigger lush than I, had a perfectly normal liver. Does this mean there is hope for the rest of us (his brothers and sisters) so long as we don't blow our brains out? I don't know. But I know now that there was so much more involved in his death than I thought there was when I wrote the last post. I've found out a lot of things. The poor fucker. I wish he'd called me before he did it. Life isn't fair. Death is often unfair as well. If only he had called and asked me some questions. The truth might have set him free better than a bullet. It didn't have to come to that. He deserved better. I hope he has at least found the peace he so desperately needed and that it is finally all over because he made it end.