I’m one of those lucky people who has someone who has my back.
It’s easy, when you have it, to take it for granted. But I have it. And I’m not trying to rub it in, but I think you should know. It’s kind of important if you want to know me.
I’m not going to lie and say we always understand each other.
I’m not going to lie and say we’re always on the same page or even, sometimes, in the same book.
But I’m also not going to lie and say he’s not one of the good ones — the kind who calls when he says he’ll call. The kind who stays sober so you have a safe ride home. The kind who cooks you dinner and rubs your back and somehow manages to turn you into a hugger when hugging used to make you feel all awkward and gangly and boob-pressy.
Sometimes I think I don’t know who he really is, and that scares me.
But it also keeps things interesting.
He’s my rock and my hard place.
Infuriating sometimes, because he can’t read my mind and I don’t know why.
All I do know is that 31 years ago, the world was graced with this:
(This side isn’t so bad, either):
And those of us who get to experience him, no matter how brief or how long, should consider ourselves pretty damn lucky, indeed.
Happy birthday, Justin!
