I still haven’t decided if you’re fucking crazy or fucking genius. Probably a 60/40 mix going both ways depending on the day. You’re an excellent driver as far as skill goes, but just terrible as far as comfort. Stop giving me your opinion when I don’t want it. The best thing you ever gave me – although you may believe different – is “Little Broken Hearts” and good weed. Thank you for letting me be the one you love because you want to and not because you have to. Thank you for your brutal honesty, the bike rides, the electronics, and for shutting up that one time we were sitting by the river listening to the water. The two worst things you ever did was tell me you were concerned I had a higher tendency for sexual deviancy because of my father leaving, and rag on me about my religiously healthy eating habits which were my compromise to an eating disorder no one knew I had. But I forgive you. I’ve still never told anyone what you told me. I miss you, and I wish you had taught me to drive. I don’t remember half the things you’ve ever tried to teach me but I appreciate you for trying. Some of the best moments of my life were spent with you, and about 1/3 of those were spent on the handle bars of your bike. I’m happy you didn’t always make me wear a helmet. I miss getting high with you. You are wrong about the nutritional value of your stew. I love spinach and will eat as much of it as I was as long as you are eating as many pastries as you want. I’m sorry I didn’t watch my oatmeal more closely while it was in the microwave. I think you have an eating disorder. I like that we take our coffee the same. I’m sorry we don’t have more pictures together, but god damn all the ones we have are good. I love your hands. And tomatoes. Don’t die before I see you again. Stop trying to fix your own bike.