I’m supposed to say things these days, a speech, share a memory, recite a poem, though always comes off half-assed written -since I never knew how to say things in public anyway (they paid someone else to do me, didn’t they?) I’m supposed to.
In the old days I just said whatever came to mind and they were not always bad, but they weren’t good either. I cringed on the whole thing but you always looked at me, teary eyed and grateful.
I got compliments. She’s such a writer, they said. She’s a poet, you added. (I’m not). We’d drink, we’d laugh. You’d act weird all night. I, what? look. The look of knowing I am wonderful but I don’t feel so. We partied up 90s style, without boomerang, without Instagram stories, or reel. The world before twitter.
For your endless curiosity, yes I share with her things, but mostly just smoothies recipes, a cleanse from whatever it was you drank the night before. But what I really want to say and tell her is that to fix you, she needs to replace all of your internal organs, there!
You’d be a new man.
Yes I am hilarious, but really, I’m serious. There’s no amount of herbs will revive his liver, or you know, his heart. It just is.
I don’t know what to say and my laptop is running on 7 percent battery but, happy birthday. I am happy you are born. I like your old heart. It’s beating. Eat cucumber. Sleep. Love. Live. Forget. Always.
PS. We’re not partying up.
PPS. Don’t tag me on any TBT