BROTHERS.

My older bro in all of his glory.

There's something about brothers that's kind of like gravity. Sometimes they keep you grounded, and other times they just push your ass to the ground and threaten to do it again if you say anything to mom. In my case, "brothers" means "brother," and today just so happens to be this goofy gent's birthday (see picture above). What better gift could I possibly give him than a blog post I will never directly show him? And thanks to his complete aversion to virtual social networks, the odds of him stumbling upon this post lie somewhere between the chances of me writing the next great American novel and winning Taylor Swift's heart with a Tweet. Therefore, IT'S GO TIME MOTHA F%$KA! (NOTE TO SELF: Inappropriate threat for a biological sibling.)

"STOP CALLING ME FAT!"

I'll kick things off with a fun little tale of trust (or the abuse thereof). One day in my youth while mother ran to the corner store and father brought home the bacon, Justin was assigned the task of making me breakfast. His instructions were simple.

1. Poor Rice Krispies into a bowl.
2. Add milk.
3. Hand to Mark. 

Easy enough, right? Not for my brother. Somewhere between steps 2 and 3, Justin chose to improvise. After taking stock of any additional ingredients lying around the kitchen, he decided to spice things up a bit by spiking my cereal with our dad's Jack Daniel's.

     "Justeen, why ma millk broun?" asked infant me. 
     "Because I put chocolate in it!" responded my demented brethren.

My vocabulary wasn't very vast at that age, but I could distinguish the syllables of "chocolate" from a mile away. I took a gasp of excitement so large, the Jack Krispies practically funneled towards my mouth like a water spout. Just as I started to dig in with my eating utensil, Justin valiantly shouted, "WAIT," slapping the spoon from my hand.

     "Wha u dooo dat, Justeen!?" I inquired with tears gathering in my tiny eyes.
     "Because it was POISONED!" He confessed.
     "U possoned mhe?" I questioned, completely befuddled.
     "No! I SAVED you. And you can thank me by not telling mom." He explained, pouring the tainted cereal down the drain.

And that's kind of how things went during my early adolescence. Justin would come up with a sick practical joke and I'd be his involuntary assistant. Our roles remained the same until he hit puberty. Faster than a teenage boy's voice cracks around a cheerleader, I became a convenient deflector for his classmate's cruelty. The more his peers dissed him for being tall and gangly, the more he insulted me for be short and tubby.

Me & Justin

But I'm not going to turn this entire birthday post into a roast. Fact is, there have been some very "aww" worthy moments during our life sentence as siblings. For the sake of being fair and balanced, I'll share his most recent (and arguably most significant) impact on my existence.

Once upon a time, I was preparing to pack up my entire life and move from Myrtle Beach, SC to Austin, TX in TWO WEEKS. I didn't have a car. I didn't have any friends or family out there. I had no fucking CLUE where I was going to live. I had a stack of student loans you could see from outer space. And, I had just over a grand in my bank account. My stress level was so high, my blood pressure tests resulted in a frowny face emoticon and a "911." I seriously contemplated rejecting the job offer I was moving for and spending the rest of my life as my mom's roommate. Then I got a call from Justin.
   
     "Congratulations!" he started.
     "Congratulations my ass! I don't think I can do this." I responded.

I proceeded to rattle off the aforementioned worries and insecurities. Just as my anxiety skyrocketed, Justin did what big brothers and gravity do best, he kept me grounded. I'm paraphrasing, but his pep talk went a little something like this,
     
     "Look, you ungrateful little prick. Have you opened up a newspaper recently? There are thousands of unemployed people out there trying to maintain a mortgage and a family, and you're boohooing over an exciting opportunity to move halfway across the country for a full-time job. Stop being a little bitch and recognize how fortunate you are."

His inspiring words worked wonders. By the time I hung up the phone I had stopped being a "little bitch" and started scouring Austin's Craig's List for subleases. It's because of Justin I'm typing this post from the capital of Texas, in an apartment I'm paying for, with the salary I'm earning, from the job I would have probably overlooked if it weren't for my older brother (try reading that 10 times fast). 

So Happy Birthday, Ringworm (our term of endearment). If you're reading this, I'm writing the next great American novel, cuddling with Taylor Swift and reminiscing on life as your little brother. Consensus? I don't hate it.

Me & Justin