There is this guy I know. Dogs cross the street to get pets from him, and even the most hateful cats love him, because he exudes some sort of “nah, I just want to romp too” vibe. He will spend literally hours learning about a breed of animal and is now full of more facts about bizarre wildlife than most public television.
He is a ridiculously good photographer with an even pickier sense of self-confidence than I have, which is saying a lot. He has a job in a dying industry and gets into godlike rages at the pitiful excuses for first aid his superiors half-heartedly attempt. I can’t understand how he is such a good photographer, every time I see a snippet of a new project of his I am floored.
For various reasons he has stopped eating grains and feels about a million times better. For breakfast he has “bear cereal”, which is berries and nuts with cream poured over. He yells at crows out of the car window. He has the prettiest hair and likes to have his toenails done.
When I want to buy something particularly ridiculous and glam I just need to ask him if I should and he says yes. He always goes for the sparkliest thing.
I’ve known him since he was nineteen, but I don’t want to think about that too much because we’re both twenty-seven now and that is kind of a long time.