gangly nigga, long ass nigga. dude was swimming in a hoodie and jeans with basketball shorts underneath.
something about missing nationals for a band show in disneyland. jesus. for three years straight throwing goals to this dude at various sports complexes and lumpy-grounded baseball fields. i stuck my buttcheeks into brian scott's upstairs bannister. but even before that we stuck skateboards into our backpacks and crewed on the 51 bus. and whatever that bus line that went to southland was.
markers sticking out of our pockets.
there's alot of shit to remember really, the transitions seem sharp but i know they weren't. building huge forts out of blue mats, trying to build the coolest fort like our jobs depended on it. some wild shit, slicing fruit with a knife you had to unlock from a cage with a key.
this dude cut off my dreadlocks in a san francisco basement on superbowl sunday. when did the binge drinking start? surely before this. richmond-ing people's cars and weird drunken walks through various landscapes. cold, dry, rainy, oregon, irvine, sf.
truth or dare in some small shed. franzia bags in a hottub, in someone's backyard in davis. the weird taste of jose cuervo thats dripping down your mouth and people are in the dryer and everywhere else. what a strange time. tandem bike rides with golf clubs and really light blue sweatshirts. christ that was the same summer as potlatch.
later, weird beerpong nights at connor's house, the same house we drove 2 hours to just to shit on his car. yikes. my boy shane.
more and more and more. i dont remember even half of it. nobody could. but he remembers more than I do, and those and these years have been my best. you've seen everything so far and thats worth more than anything I can think of.
happy birthday bru.
atm1
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