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Another Kind of Good

I had a childhood, boyhood friend I'll never forget. I mean, I suppose you never really forget the friend you shared your first drunken, blurry night with, or the one who comforted you while you watched the world fall apart, brick by brick, on that tangy, juicy trip gone wrong.

Why? Because it's your first taste of love in that innocent sense. The first time you realize a person can help you face that part of life that is gray and confusing. That part that makes you feel alone.

And it's hard to see through that gray sometimes. It's like a low hanging fog that blocks the sun. Or smoke. Yearning curiosity suffocates you, clogs your throat, and causes your eyes to water, making it impossible to look into the light of what you thought you knew.

But he was always there with a cigarette and a bottle to offer a little clarity.

You wanna know how we met? He was holding the hair of a drunken stranger in the Quad on campus. He carried her home and put her to bed. He asked me to help.

We helped each other tarnish those pristine ideals. Dirtying our minds with liquor and smoke. But even if we were something acidic, turning silver chains to mildewy shades of green and blue, he had to be something impervious and golden too.

He never let people get in the way of his happiness.
Or happiness get in the way of people.

So, even if we weren't good, it was good.

And he was good.




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