Larry Lee Worthington died on June 2, 2025, in Kansas at the age of 59, following complications from small cell carcinoma—an end result of a life shaped by chronic drug use, alcoholism, and decades of consistently poor decisions.

He is survived by his three daughters: Brianna Lloyd, Savannah Alvarez, and Chemistry Richardson. These remarkable women were not raised by him. They became strong, smart, and deeply resilient without his guidance, support, or love. Every milestone they reached, every bit of who they are, was built in his absence—not thanks to him, but in rebellion against the damage he left behind.

He is also survived by any other family who might decide to claim him on the right day (not you, Mary).

Larry's life was defined by distance—both emotional and physical—and an Olympic-level ability to avoid anything that resembled responsibility. He ran from responsibility like it was chasing him with child support papers and a conscience. What he left behind wasn't a legacy—it was a checklist of missed opportunities, broken connections, and unopened opportunities to be better.

Still, Larry wasn't entirely void of personality. He did love lip-syncing like he was headlining a concert in his living room like no one was watching (though many, unfortunately, were), and somehow always looking like he stepped out of a gas station, whether he had or not. His devotion to button-down plaid or blue shirts paired with blue jeans was nearly spiritual. In a world of chaos, at least his fashion choices were consistent.

There will be no formal memorial service. His remains will be handled privately by the daughters he walked away from, in whatever way they see fit—possibly with some classic rock, a laugh or two about the absurdity of it all, and a toast to closure. In true Larry fashion, they'll take care of what he didn't, one last time.

This obituary isn't written out of bitterness or sorrow. It's written to acknowledge the truth: some people leave this world the same way they lived in it - complicated, distant, and probably a bit off pitch. And sometimes, that ending is the only closure you get.

Let this obituary be a lesson to any absent parents. One day, your children will have to write your obituary. Give them something meaningful to write about.

Rest however you do, Larry. You were never much for sticking around.