I got up at 4:30 am this morning, and wrote a post about Spencer Cox. He was my friend, and he was snarky and spit-your-drink funny, and also a world-changing hero. He loved French bulldogs and Patti LuPone. When we met as teenagers, apparently he thought I was really weird.
I don’t know where to start. My friend Spencer Cox is dead. My first reaction to the news was to admonish him, on Facebook, that he wasn’t allowed to die, dammit, and if he’d just admit it was one of his jokes I wouldn’t be mad. Because. It couldn’t be true.