I finally cancelled my Friend Request on Steam. You were clearly a man who had your heart broken in the past. You were the only other person I knew who had played Utopia and Everquest and could talk about it with a fond, nostalgic smile. I sent you a Friend Request and waited. You played Rust and Papers, Please. And the Nintendo Switch. You loved Zelda games. I waited, hoping you’d accept my Friend Request. I forgave you because I thought maybe you were still hurting and didn’t trust easily. I forgave you and became happy just seeing you once a week on Mondays to play Starfinder. I cancelled my Friend Request because I didn’t want to appear pushy. I didn’t want to appear needy. I knew you could have accepted it at any time, and I should have just kept it pending.
I knew we were friends in real life. Mason and I invited you to see Isle of Dogs. You drove your Audi, found better parking than we did, and quicker than we did.
I wish I had given out our Starfinder Game Group gifts earlier and then you would have known you were loved by us all. Now your gift sits unopened on your spot on the gaming couch. A stupid inside joke that we’ll never get to share with you. We’ll keep that $4 Space Robot from Target and think of you. We laughed so hard when we found it. We actually went back to Target twice to get one for you and E.T.
You missed the all-day gaming session on New Years Eve. We thought maybe you had another big family event; we considered you a part of our family, too. Rozle, we miss you. We embedded your button in to the wood arm of the couch in the Lincoln’s basement. You derezzed from the game and your memory will remain with us forever. You’re offline permanently. We never got to say goodbye. I can’t stand logging in to Discord and seeing your icon: offline.
I’m crying writing this and it’s only been 28, 29, 30 days. The time we knew you was brief, barely a year and a half—but it was 500+ days (you’d laugh, I had to use a calculator to times 365 days by 1.5, after trying to times it by 365 x 2 and dividing it by 2 and wondering why it didn’t work). 500+ days we all shared the same earth and a handful of hilarious Monday nights and at least one convention that we’ll always have as memories. As our friends said: we have the benefit of not have any bad memories of you. Not a single one.
You attended SpoCon with us and you were such a great help. All you wanted to do was help, even though you paid full price to attend.
You were always there, ready to ask what could be done. You bought your custom dice bag with your name on it and one for your daughter. You helped me calm down when I got overwhelmed at the convention, like a good friend does, even though we weren’t good friends—you were just that kind of person. You wanted to help everyone, and you did.
Your entire Starfinder Game Group attended your celebration of life. It was beautiful. The room was full of family, friends, co-workers, old classmates, old high school teachers and even just customers from where you worked. We met your daughter for the first time. She looks just like you and is clearly loved and protected by your remaining family. You had a huge family and cousins who loved you. When they described how you spent your time: the Monday Night Game Group was delighted to be included without provoking an attack of opportunity. It didn’t surprise any of us to see pictures of you playing Nintendo or Super Nintendo, or to hear stories of how ridiculously good you were at math and video games. We miss our human calculator. I’m so much slower without you. Two members of our group stood up when asked to speak about you—and it started with, “I’m Edgar, I’m with the Monday night Starfinder group,” and then Mason, “I’m also with the Starfinder group…” Mason shared the story about how proud you were with the dice box your daughter had bought for you. You were so humble, but the moment someone asked ‘Hey, is that a new dice box?’ ‘Yes it is, my daughter got it for me, let me tell you all about it—’ And then your old high school gym teacher walked up to the podium, and he’s like, “I’m not with the Starfinder group—” and everyone laughed. They told the room how you’d always be back in a secluded room gaming during family events, or slip out early whenever possible. In true, anti-social fashion, your game group left early to go and have dinner together instead of eating with everyone else.
I never thought I’d be in a gaming group where a player died before their character. There is a deeply sad, empty place on the gaming couch where a new friend once sat. I’m sorry we had to split the party. I cancelled my Friend Request on Steam and I’ll always be sad not seeing ‘pending.’ We left your character somewhere safe as the new mascot for a Virtual Reality Gaming company. Your gaming miniature is protected at Edgar’s house. Your memory is protected by us all.
Your mom played the instrumental version of this song at your memorial:
Memories from various Starfinder Mondays:
"Two Ysoki and two Androids walk into a Sporange Julius--"
"Do you guys have wall insurance?"
"That was, like, the, most fire I've done!"
"He steals another kill!” … "Thanks, Rozle."
"We go (safely) both directions. Up AND down." #RozleFlights
“Am I 4th Level Spell mad at this guy?”
“Perfect, now he’s behind a wall—I can hit him now!”
“Watch out, there’s a magic!”
“This voucher good for one wall.”
“I’ve done dozens of simulations”
[rolled a 1] “Gary, you’re in the way!”
“I’m thinking of nothing but cold-vulnerable monsters!”
“Ice elementals, ice elements guys!”
“We love that green brick thing!”
“I go boop the stamina marker. I love you, stamina.”
#BatteryMagic #DubstepDragons #TemporarilyUsefulUndead #LegendOfGelda #RozlesRaiders #LuckyTeam13
The only 20 Rozle rolled all night: sense motive.