Nobody, and I mean nobody, could pull off that whole dapper 1920's look the way you could. In fact, you didn't so much pull it off as much as you inhabited it. I don't know where you found some of those amazing clothes, but they were so perfectly you that on the occasions when I saw you in something like a tee-shirt, it was then that you looked bizarre. You carried yourself so naturally in a theater department chock full of attention whores all trying on this or that costumey look. I wanted to be your friend the first time we spoke.
I remember we bonded one day over cigarettes and a shared hatred of musicals. It can be painful to be a musical hating theater major because you are surrounded by people who are willing and ready to burst into song at any moment, as if to prove that people do in fact burst into song in real life, thereby proving that musicals have some kind of right to exist, which they do not. It was such a relief to find out that I was not the only one.
You quit school and headed off to clown college to become, well, a clown. When you came back to Austin, you brought along the love of your life, a girl you had met at clown college. Just sitting in a room and having a conversation with the two of you inspired a feeling of being an eight year old boy at the circus because you simply could not stop clowning. I loved the both of you.
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