You would’ve hated your birthday.
I remember when we were in sixth grade; you were a good friend of mine. Although I’m not quite sure if I was a good friend of yours. Children are like that, I suppose. But how you saw me doesn’t matter as much now. Even if I make the claim that we were good friends, you wouldn’t be here to say ‘no, that’s ridiculous, we were never’, and I guess I would never have said this if you were still alive today.
But you would’ve hated your birthday. I know because that was, perhaps, one of the things we always talked about. And some things haven’t changed, the Lakers are still the most detestable team in the world, and watching the Sacramento Kings with C-Webb, Peja, JWil/Bibby is still the most I’ve enjoyed basketball in my life.
I remember you loved taking that jumper from the top of the key with minimal arm movement. Only a flick of the wrist, like C-Webb. Alas, C-Webb is just a commentator now, and the Lakers have been in the finals for the past three years. I don’t know which of the last three years you were able to watch. You disappeared from my life when we hit high school, small talk aside. I never would have remembered you, even, if I didn’t get the news.
Basketball aside, though, we never talked much. We only had anime, I think, in common. I distinctly remember you telling me how good it must feel to hug a woman, to feel her soft breasts against your chest. I remember your delight when you found out that females secrete a natural lubricant during sex. ‘Ang sarap n’uuuuuuuuuuuun’, you would say. I remember agreeing, happy that it wasn’t just me.
I’d like to know when you stopped sharing those dreams of yours, or even the small sadnesses in your life, but I doubt I ever will. Even if you were alive, I wouldn’t have known, in fact, I wouldn’t have asked. But now the rest of your life has become just speculation to me, and to all the friends around us; Which is why I have put up these memories here, these stupid memories — just a tribute to what was there, instead of what could’ve been, because that depresses me.
It would’ve looked ridiculous to you, seeing this strange letter from me. But that’s one of the things that not-being-here brings. People end up telling you they love you. You end up never knowing how much they did. As much as I hate cliches, this is one I will subscribe to. You were a great friend, Adrian. I wish you spent more time here.
Here’s to basketball. Here’s to the love of women and the biological coincidences that make sex fantastic. Here’s to our old friendship.
Happy birthday, no homo,