WHATEVER YOU CALL IT IT'S COOL

Day 4 — Your sibling (or closest relative):

Hey Darrin,

I bet you are thinking: I am not his sibling or closest relative. Looking at the chart of a family tree my Anthropology teacher gave me, you are my cousin once removed. As a child, I thought that meant some kind of weird cousin emancipation, but it just means you’re my mom’s cousin. Okay.

But in a way, I guess you are my closest relative, going on the definition of closest that means “emotionally close” and not “bloodline close.” I’m so stoked about what we’ve got going, this friendship thing. That’s what I call you now. I say, my friend Darrin in Bloomington. I hope that’s okay. Because, I feel like what you’ve taught me and do for me and the way we interact isn’t the humdrum boredom of cousinship, but of friendship.

As a human being in general, I like to think that I think more than ever, and much of that, it seems, would be because of you. Simply, you taught me to think about the choices I make. You taught me to take an interest in others, not in a you’re-my-friend-so-I’m-listening-kind-of-way, but in a you’ve-got-experience-and-life-and-culture-and-I’m-gonna-listen-kind-of-way.

I remember when Sara and I moved to Scheidler that sweet summer where we lived across the yard from each other. That was so much fun. You were all about the birds, with a hook thing and a bird feeder outside your window. Sara bought one and you wrote a sticky note on it that said, HEY BIRDS THIS FOOD IS POISONED THE GOOD FOOD IS OVER THERE→. Yeah, I’m still laughing about that.

I wish you were here sometimes, so we could ride bikes to get frozen yogurt or go to the farmer’s market. I wish I was there sometimes, so we could do culturally cool things and shoot pool. I know you’ve got a two year plan, but I do too.

Love,
Tyler

This Is One Big Joke

The problem with this new family is they don’t get my jokes. My insides are hurting, holding in the chuck-chuck-chuckles I can’t give outloud to myself, and they stare at me like my name is Vlad. Conservative chicken farmers meet disgruntled poet. Okay. Like today, when everyone is hot and bothered by the heat, stressed out by new-Mom not letting anyone wander within 3 feet of the edge, I say, we all should just chill dudes, sticking my hands out like riding a surf board, hanging ten or whatever. They’re like, whatever Keanu. Okay. That’s not true. But really, I stole one from my dad, he is old and funny, saying smoke another one when someone coughs, Nothing, just looks that say, we don’t believe in cigarettes. Saying the dust is getting in her lungs, that’s not funny. What?! Later, I’m at the top of a big old rock, I see new-Mom sweating panic, I’m so close to the edge, so I throw my hands up, raising the roof, maybe shaking my booty a little. Just shouts of WATCH OUT and crooked eyebrows. Man, I think, Zach would be stoked, smiling his big wide smile. The worst part is they don’t even appreciate domestic violence jokes, like when Sara calls me a slow-poke or a wuss or dumbhead while climbing some jagged rocks and I say,shut up I’m going to rip your face off. Everyone checking my fists, new-sister cowering in a crevice. Jeremy would be saying, Whoa man. Watch yourself. Clark would get the joke. Come on people.