You don’t really love me, boy, unless
You’ve seen me laugh so hard that I have pissed myself at a bar.
You’ve listened or gone to an Incubus concert with me and watched me act a plumb complete fool.
You’ve cleaned up my vomit after one of my battles with whiskey and put me to bed.
You’ve listened to me rant and rave on and on about some obscure comic book, or about the equality or women, or about how stupid racism is, or about why I think I have sociopathic tendencies, or about how much I loved being in Italy and how much I’d rather be back there than here with you.
You’ve heard me speak in a southern or British accent when introducing myself to a stranger with a fake name and you ran with the lie right along side me.
You’ve earned red wings with me.
You’ve come back after I pushed you away again and again and again.
You’ve seen me cry and have tried to console me but I was inconsolable.
You’ve heard me promise over and over again that I am giving up the booze and quitting smoking and living a clean meatless life and you never judge when you see me again with a pint, a pack and a steak.
You know what I have been through and seen all of my scars.
You’ve kept it to yourself when you caught me being wrong because it’s such a rare occurrence in nature.
You’ve met my son and my circle of close friends and they don’t hate you.
You have seen me with and without my costume hair on the same day.
You’ve seen how erratic and desperate and crazy I can be when I don’t have any money.
You’ve read my blog or bought one of my books and commented, truthfully.
Until then, you just like me a lot.