Becoming That Tito

One day, Justin and I talked about our future. We were concerned about who we would become when we hit out 30s. Justin, by the way, is a cousin with whom I have nothing in common except for the fact that we share the same disdain for some relatives. In our somewhat sprawling family, he is the only one that I can talk to about how extremely messed up our relatives are. Justin and I dislike our burgis cousins who think they’re more pogi than us. We bond over beer and hatred, I guess you can say.

If we’re lucky, our pesky titos will leave us alone at Christmastime and allow us the luxury of getting drunk hassle-free. If we’re lucky, they would completely ignore us or just me, and not ask questions to which answers they don’t really care to know. It’s actually amusing and sometimes fun to be interrogated and it’s really not a big deal and I’m just really filling space and creating something to complain about. I should really be making plans now because much as I despise christmas, I don’t want to fill the rest of the day thinking about things I have no control over. What to drink later and how much, these are things I have total control over.

Titos will parade in front of us today for our scrutinizing pleasure and displeasure and we’d see who we’d really soon become because  on previous discussions, I dreaded becoming that tito whose life I absolutely, undoubtedly mirror. I can not be this tito. Justin, though, hadn’t seemed to have any qualms about being like several of the wasted, ambiguous lifestyle-living titos because he lives differently. He could one day turn out to be Mon, the married, plain-living, good-looking in his early 30s, fun, cool-with-the-nieces Tito and be happy and contented. Or we thought, he could be the drug addict tito of which we have a lot and grow up to be an… addict, although he swears he won’t do drugs, just smokes of the highest kind. Me, even if the evidence is crystal clear, will become that tito. I’m already him, in a way: won’t marry (at least not today or next year), held together by coffee, wants little company, openly critical and hopeful. He’s not bad but I hope I become Mon instead.

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