Bootem Crackem.

It took me something like 20 years to finally make more money than you, little brother. I got the good grades. I played by the rules. But you had all the friends. You had all the adventures. You always seemed to luck out and land the sweet gigs.

Even now, as P’s recently turned six, your boy is already signed up for basic training and setting off on his own big, grown-up adventure. It’s not like I’ve ever felt we were competing, but it’s strange to think how often I’ve compared myself to you.

You’ve been through some shit. Through some serious shit.

20 years late to the party, man, I wish I’d been cooler back in the day. It would have been cool to party with you more often. Now we’re all grown up, paying bills, lying in the beds we’ve made, and all I want to do is kick back with a cold one and talk about life, the Universe, and everything with you.

We don’t get together nearly as much as we should. That’s a shame. Especially considering we’ve not lived this close together in years. (sigh) Growing up, right? There’s always something else we gotta do.

Don’t let the bastards grind you down, man. And don’t let that sense of futility and escapism keep you from doing what you know needs to be done. Stand tall. Do the right thing. Take care of yourself.

Be happy.

Love you bro.

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