I know you want to be able to write this to someone that you are so in love with it makes you forget to take a freeway exit or feels like a warm-kinda-achey curse on your heart. But you can’t. And you can’t will that kind of love to happen.
Alone is a hard place. It’s tough to just let it be.
But you know you aren’t really alone, right? You’ve got your son, your sisters, a brother buried somewhere in that sister-pile, cool brother-in-laws, a shit-ton of nephews and nieces. There’s your loyal friends too, some that you’ve known since time forgot.
I know it’s not the same kind of love. But dude, think about it. You’ve got it made.
I’m not writing this to convince you. It’s just a reminder. You know this because I’m you, you are me, goo goo g’ joob.
And that’s the point. You’ve finally got you too. You looked at yourself, all bloody and war-torn, and laid down your arms. You surrendered to yourself. Thanks for that. It’s a big deal.
That’s why, in an ironic act of defiance against the shallow inanity of the consumer-driven-holiday-posed-as-some-lovey-dovey-chocolate-flower-shit-show, I’m writing you a love letter. Because who doesn’t want a love letter? Plus, irony and defiance make you all giddy inside.
Life. What a trip, huh? We really flipped its bricks. I’m glad we lost our shit. It’s scary, but we’re going to be okay. Doesn’t it feel great to be certain about that even though we can’t see the end of the path?
I think mom would be proud. She always knew our potential. The O’Callaghan line is turning tragedy into triumph.
Fist bumps for choosing to pour ants in our pants. We’ve got a lot of dancing ahead.
Thanks for giving a fuck about us.
I love you, Bro.