I met you during my second year at UCSB, but before I ever met you, I met all of your roommates.
"What's with the weird gay bathroom?"
"Talk to Keith about it."
"What the fuck? Who's Keith??"
"Um, he doesn't spend much time at home. He's a really cool guy though, and probably not gay."
"But he has time to hang fake wisteria plants from your bathroom window?"
I do remember meeting you though. We were all playing Asshole in your living room, and you came home; it was probably 1 or 2 in the morning. You were clearly trying to avoid all of the strangers in you house and go straight to your room. I think I used my highly developed social skills to ask something like, "Are you the homo bathroom boy?" Which I'm sure went over really, really well.
Somehow we moved past the fact that you're awkwardly shy and I'm awkwardly loud and you were my very best friend, subject to my unconditional love, support, and adoration.
I'm sorry I called your bathroom gay, and I'm pretty sure you forgive me for it?
You're really fucking cool. You always know how to make me feel better. You get it. You have the same fucked up sense of humor that I do. When I spend too much time with you my schedule gets all fucked up because you stay up till 4am and then you actually can get me to sleep in until the afternoon. Do you know that I can NEVER sleep in at other people's houses? You make the BEST mix CDs. I love your family. Hanging out with you is always easy.
A couple of years ago you fell off the planet, and I got tired of calling you if you didn't want to call me back. And then you did call me back. And then we hung out. And then you didn't. And now we don't. It all just seems so stupid to me.
You're still one of my best friends, and I miss you. Happy birthday honey love.