But tomorrow never comes, right?
It’s your birthday, so I read something you wrote. That’s my present to you. (Actually I read it yesterday. But still, happy birthday I guess you big old turd.)
It was really good. Which annoys me. I want to roll my eyes at it. I want to think it’s dumb, that you’re dumb, that I’m missing out on exactly nothing. Big deal. you can string a few words together. So can a stupid AI. Who even cares.
But instead, I read it and I didn’t roll my eyes. I loved it. Ugh. Even more annoying, it didn’t make me feel bitter or angry or sad or jealous. It made me happy, with warm feelings of tenderness. I want to tell you about how good it is and why. I want to talk to you about it. But I can’t.
Tomorrow I’m going to NY for the rest of my little mini vacation and I can put these MA memories to rest.
Tonight maybe I’ll dream about you and we’re still friends and tomorrow won’t ever come. (Till it does.)