Biffle and I once had the following conversation:
Biffle: I’m really glad we’re friends.
Me (derisive snort): Lame.
Biffle: Seriously. You’re a good friend.
Me: Why are you being so weird? Are you dying?
Biffle: No. I’m trying to tell you I appreciate you.
(At this point, I am not even listening to him)
Me: OH MY GOD! Am I dying?!
(Biffle exits my room, shaking his head and assuredly wondering why, sweet Jesus, why I am the way I am and what he did wrong to get saddled with me as his friend)
Ten years of conversations like this where this poor bastard does something nice and I ruin it.
But we’ve also had ten years of singing R. Kelly, Biggie and The Eagles in the car, really loudly.
Ten years of #FatKidSwag, even-bad-pizza-is-good-pizza, family dinners and “Jeet? Y’auntto?”
Ten years of video game marathons, quality time with dogs that love him more than they love me and me trying my damndest to gross him out.
Ten years of that laugh where I sound like a dying witch, that horrible noise of shame that I will never make for anyone else and conversations between the both of us that take place without him even being involved.
Ten years of being family.
Happy birthday, bro.
I know use that term all the time, but in your case – I really mean it.
I would share all my sandwiches with you. Even the ones with avocado. And smoked cheddar. Oooh and that really garlicky broccoli raab with the red pepper flake that gives you zombie breath for like, three days afterwards? Yeah. I’d share that with you.
Man, I am the best friend ever…