I’ve been reading the archives of The Bloggess, and now that I’ve managed to stop the secret chortling (which hurts my stomach muscles, but prevents my coworkers from realizing how much fun I’m having without them), I have to make a confession. I wish I had a Victor of my very own. I’m pretty sure my knuckles would be sore from all of the arm punching, but my gut would also be sore from all of the laughing.
My best friend is that kind of crazy funny, but he lives far away and his wife doesn’t like me. Not that I blame her—he and I share a secret language, but it’s kind of like the secret language that twins often have. It doesn’t matter how much we explain that we are siblings who just happen to have different parents, either. He and I laugh like idiots and have too much fun whenever we get together, and it just makes her tense.
Maybe I should just move to Houston and get The Bloggess to be my drinking buddy.
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