When I was first player, you were always second player.

When I learned how to play drums, you learned how to play bass.

When I learned how to code, you learned how to design.

When I majored in literature, you majored in physics.

When I grew out my hair, you got a buzz cut.

When I became a live sound engineer, you became the bouncer.

When I became a blogger, you became a podcaster.

When I learned French, you learned Japanese.

When I got an Xbox 360, you got a PS3 (alright, you got a Wii, too).

When I said “we’re going on tour,” you packed your bags, your guitar, and a Gameboy Advance.

When I got up for work and drove west, you got up for school to drive east.

When I learned how to compose arrangements, you learned how to shred on guitar.

When I took up smoking, you took up lifting weights.

When I became a Mac, you stayed a PC.

When we talk, we don’t speak too deeply.  Our differences divide us superficially like how often either of us decides to wear pants or shorts, or fundamentally like how I’m right-handed and you’re left-handed, or even deeply in that I am a social butterfly and you are a stoic. We rarely tell each other stories about our respective lives.  And even though we’ve had inside jokes all of our lives, a lot of our bond is unspoken. It’s because our closeness comes from a relationship that is unspoken.

When we are doing what we love, the bond is there.  So there’s no point in trying to talk to get us to be close.

When we rock, they know we’re brothers. It’s as simple as that.

So from first player to second player: Bon anniversaire, たんじょうびおめでとう — happy birthday.