Today my sweet baby brother turns nineteen. This kind of freaks me out, because nineteen is an age I remember very clearly, and, a few things aside, it really wasn’t all that different from now. Okay, I don’t live in a dorm and I can buy my own alcohol and I gave up on the whole mod headband thing, but other than that, on the inside, I still feel a lot like I did when I was nineteen.
It’s a little strange for me, for my brother and I to have some common ground other than the fact that we share the same parents and a love for Mystery Science Theater 3000. He is the one person on the planet that I am more related to than anyone else, and we couldn’t be more opposite. We don’t even look alike. At all. No one in my immediate family really does, but he definitely looks the least like anyone else. When he was little, I attempted several times to discuss in hushed tones with my mother the possibility of the hospital having switched babies on us, but she wasn’t interested in my theories.
Not that I would have let anyone take him back. I like watching how he turns out. And besides, who else is going to walk into my room at midnight on Christmas and say, “let’s do shots and watch Willow”?