Retardiness

I know some people who are habitually late. One of these people is my best friend, whose birthday I’m heading off to celebrate with hetero-life-partner style by eating dinner and having drinks.

What I’m always perplexed by is why, if I know he’s going to be late all the time, why do I always rush to be on time? For a while I figured it was just so we could arguee about it and I could have something to be indignant about. I so rarely get to be the indignant one.

It’s not that, even though I do love being indignant. Shit, I even love SAYING indignant.

No, it’s because I need to keep us opposite.

My friend, he’s kind of like the Schwarzeneggar to my DeVito, I’m pretty sure I’ve mentioned this before, but it’s always nice to remember again why he’s my best friend, especially when it comes time to celebrate his being a month older than me.

When I’m clueless, I can always count on him to know what to do.

When I feel the need to lie, he can back up that lie with some truth.

When he is who he is, it makes me secure in myself, knowing that together we’ve got the whole spectrum covered, from good to bad, from open minded to notoriously slightly obnoxiously stubborn.

So, I guess in a way, he has to be late and I have to be early, or else who are we? I’m not Dave and he’s not Nick.

Oh shit, I just made myself late writing this!