Almost 8 years ago, I lost one of my brothers to the "War on Terror." I did today what I always do. I got drunk at a bar by myself, and left his name on a napkin with a shot of Jim Beam. I used to entertain myself with the idea that he died for some noble reason like patriotism and honor, but I don't do that anymore. He would be 28 years old. He'd probably have a wife, a couple kids, a good job, and an easy life. But he doesn't. He's gone, and I can't fucking rationalize it anymore. As fucked up as life can be sometimes, at least I have one. Yours was taken too early. At 21 years old, you didn't get to experience true failure, or the bone-shaking redemption that follows from perseverance. You didn't get to see how fucked up the world can be, and then cultivate your own little bubble of kindness that makes it a better place. You didn't live to see your dreams crash and burn around you before you realized you could be happy without a million dollars and a back-stage pass. Life is fucking hard, and it's harder without you. I love you brother, and I miss you. Semper Fi.
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