I was born in a small town called Ellwood City, just about 30 miles northwest of Pittsburgh. The thing about small towns is, you always know everybody. You always hear about somebody. In this small town, it has become a bit of a curse to be from there, and an even worse curse to actually remain there. I'm 32 years old and in those 32 years I've experienced death on a grand scale. I'm sure there are people twice my age that haven't experienced death the way I have.

It all started in the year 2001 with my friend, my one-time cousin (by marriage), and all around protector, and the inspiration behind my Big Sal character. Curt Bucci was a big kid. Probably 6 foot 2 and around 250. He was a huge italian kid with an even bigger heart. The last time I saw him alive, I had run into him at the local McDonalds. He was wearing mafia inspired clothing, long leather coat, the hat, cigar, the whole nine. But, at the time, I was about 5'7 and a buck forty and I was in line and the guy bear hugs me from behind, lifts me off my feet, "Little Cuz" he yells in my ear. We exchanged our pleasantries and before we part ways he says "Little Cuz, anyone messin' with you?" "Nah, Curt, everythings fine." "Well, if anyone does, you tell 'em to come see Big Curt."

I remember that with a lot of fondness. It was the summer after our senior year of high school and we didn't see much of each other. We were in different schools and travelled in different social circles. I never forget a friend, and neither did he. One night, after a breakup and a falling out with his father over, of all things, his use of marijuana, Curt hung himself on his grandmothers back porch. At his viewing, it was truly awe-inspiring. Those that gathered to pay respects to him stood in line on a chilly October night. Most of them crying. Teachers, family, friends. The line wrapped around inside the funeral home, out its front door, into the parking lot, then down and around the block.

Seeing that, reminded me of the words Vince McMahon said on Raw the night after Owen Hart took his death plunge. If a legacy of a mans life is measured by the lives he touched, then a big piece of Curt would live on in all of us. I miss Curt everyday. I think of him often.

Curt was the first in a long line of tragedies that struck my graduating class and even my own social circle. Little did I know at the time, he was certainly not going to be the last. I was the kind of guy that, while in school, bucked "social classes" and befriended anyone I could. Below, the lives claimed by the curse:

Curtis Bucci: 1983-2001 - Suicide

Brian Rubino: 1982-2004 - Was walking home from a bar, then struck and killed by a car.

George Crepp: 1983-2004 - Drug overdose.

Scott Babyok: 1983-2004 - He slid off the road and hit a tree. He was thrown through the windshield and decapitated by a branch. Freak accident. Freak result.

Daniel Mazzant: 1984-2006 - One of the nicest people I've ever met in my life. He was born with an underdeveloped heart and lived about 6 years longer than he was expected to. He died of a massive heart attack.

Daniel Nye: 1983-2010 - Drug Overdose.

Christina Whelan: 1983-2011 - Moved to North Carolina to teach. Killed in a car accident. Also, one of the sweetest ladies I ever knew, and the best friend of my ex-wife-ish.

David Raisor: 1983-2012 - Suicide. Gassed himself to death in his garage.

Daniel Mohr: 1982-2014 - Suicide.

Staff Sergeant James Gandy: 1983-2015: Drug overdose. Died on Friday.

It may not seem like too many to some, but in Small Town, U.S.A.? That's a shit load of people. Death sucks, people. If you're on drugs or suicidal, get yourself some help. I'm not sure if you realize it, but there is treatment for addiction, treatment for depression and suicidal thoughts, there's treatment for just about everything. But you know what there is no treatment for? Death. You can't cure death. You can't treat death. There is no coming back. Death is final.