It’s another one of those weird nights where things feel… portentious. I want to have deep meaningless discussions with someone about life and faith and important things that aren’t really important to me.
It’s a night when I don’t think I could be funny to save my life. It didn’t start out that way. I was actually feeling fairly silly when I came home.
I talked with my parents, something I’m only inclined to do when I’m feeling particularly manic.
Then I came upstairs. An old friend from a gaming guild I was in during the first part of high school emailed. He’s almost done with his books, and he’s tracking people down one more time to make sure that it’s ok to use their “likeness” in it.
I was joyously typing away until I realized that he might be my best chance to contact my cousin N.
N. more or less ran away from home a few months ago. He’s 23, and has every right to, except we don’t even know if he’s alive.
We grew up together, more like twins than cousins. We actually had a hard time convincing some of our classmates that not only were we not twins, but that he was adopted. We explained it over and over, but few really believed us.
And N. is an asshole. Which you probalby knew from this little stunt, but it bears repeating. A grade-A asshole. He used to lie to me all the time, and being pure as the driven snow, I believed him. Time and time again he chewed up my trust and spit it out, and I crawled right back for more.
I was a sad, sad child.
Point of reference: He was the only person I considered my friend until sixth grade.
So I typed my no-appearance-of-desperate desperate email, hoping for any word that he’s alive out there somewhere.
And life seemed a little less fun.
