This seems like one of those posts that should start with "I remember when we first met...", but in all truth, I have no fucking clue when that was. I think you had a pink cap on and a Zeller's Club, because it was like 1996 or something - we're going back like 20 years here, what do you want from me?

Anyway, I don't remember the meeting, but I do remember when we started hanging out regularly. Which, yeah, in retrospect, was pretty fucking odd given the age difference.

I feel like writing cause I'm sitting here, thinking, and it's usually better to associate the two than not. But it's late, and probably easier just to smoke a bowl and watch something, so perhaps this will be something to revisit tomorrow, if I still feel writey. I will sum up.

There is no moral to this story - this is one of those big events that seems like it should have some great lesson in it, or at least some kind of enlighteningly ironic outcome, but I've spent a bit of time thinking about the whole thing, and no matter which way I twist it, there is no big message here. We all lose sometimes? People who love Good Charlotte don't generally have great taste? Drugs are bad?

I don't know. I think you and the whole thing were probably the first big mysteries in my life. That's a mighty decent contribution.