If I fucking punch you in the face while you’re driving, you should probably heed my screams and pullover or make the next exit. Especially when you’re driving drunk/high, weaving across the expressway, speeding in the rain, oh, and telling me that you’re “fucked up.”
Then you have the gall to ask “are you mad at me?” when we get home. Damn, bro, I thought you were smarter than that.
It’s been a long time since I’ve had to actually assume the role of “Older Brother” as opposed to “Advice Giver.”
I suppose I’m the older one for a reason.
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