Four years. Not many people really appreciate just how long a time that is. I bet you don't. I however do. That is how long it has been since I have seen Burke Skidmore. He left for his mission right before I got home from mine.
Four years changes a lot of things. I can now grow facial hair (it is a delicious shade of dark red), I now am an avid fan of hygiene, I'm officially not gay (I have well-documented proof of that), and most of all I am now fat. There is a lot of trepidation in me as my mind whirls with the countless possibilities of what he will say and think at that moment of eye-feastation when reunited we are. Will he hate me? Will he say, "No John. A lot has changed and I now hate fat people." Will he throw things at me for having betrayed his trust by now liking girls (for the record I always liked 'em... they're downright delightful, and oh so perrty. It just wasn't common knowledge or provable in a court of law)? Will he fear my fiery face chin?
As all of these thoughts go running through my head, my heart whispers a gentle reminder to me: O.B.B.--Original Bed Buddies...
Original Bed Buddies
Man.
I'm a man.
You're a man.
We do man-things like beat stuff up and burn it.
Men.
Us men.
We're both men.
We wear man-clothes that accentuate our extreme manitudes: NOT BONNETS.
Time has passed, and the man-hourglass has no sand.
Frolic. We'll surely frolic. Run very man-like through fields hand-in-hand.
Sing. Karaoke in man-scary places with men with hairy faces
Men with big boots and fur wraps of animals they've killed with their own teeth.
Are we men: the least of these? Ho please.
They respect us down on both knees.
Men.
We're men.
Welcome home Burke. You have been missed. Don't expect those sentiments to last very long, though. Soon enough you'll be just as much of a hiss and a by-word as the rest of us.
