So Joy, my sister, calls me up at work today.
“Hey,” she said, “do you know what’s on your birth certificate? Is it junior, or something else?”
“I have no idea.”
“Well, why not?”
“Because I don’t.”
“You don’t know what’s on your birth certificate?”
“I haven’t looked at it in 20 years. How the fuck would I know what was on it?” I said, exasperated.
“Do you have a passport?”
“No. I don’t have a passport.” I said, sarcastically. I have been to three countries in as many years. Of course I had a passport.
She hung up on me.
This is a normal conversation for us.
Now there was reason she was asking. My sister is getting married, but she’s not getting married in the States. She’s going all out and getting married tropical style. Which rocks. Not only does she deserve it, but I don’t have to wear a suit. And I already know what I’m going to wear.
Light linen pants with a Hawaiian shirt. With flip-flops. Definitely flip-flops. I’m gonna be all Sonny Crockett and shit.
I can’t wait.