So I met you on some unspecified day. Only you remember the date; I'm bad with dates. But I remember the day perfectly. Obviously you do, too. I remember being starstruck, kind of. I always heard so much about you. I was just like any other high school kid who wanted to hear you play guitar.
At first I thought you hated me because you were so quiet. Or rather disliked me. I didn't feel like I'd be worth your energy. But then we went up to Sucide Hill and I stopped showing off and trying to be entertaining. We just talked. And I realized something that very first night that would make us best friends forever: other people loved me for my cheerfullness, for the mask I wore. You love me for who I am when I take off the mask.
My life was hell for the next few months. Between boyfriends, parents, friends, work, personal insecurities and mistakes, you were a constant force, pushing me forward, urging me to succeed and never give up.
And here were are, talking about my dreams of your brother being an alien, and speaking common words but in a language only we can understand.
I wanted to write something amazing but I can't compress our friendship into a blog. I wish you could be here today so that we could all celebrate your birthday together.
PS: I'm listening to old Gaslight Anthem. It's not half as good as the stuff we listened to together.
Happy birthday. Thanks for being one of the best gifts God ever gave me.