So my old pal Dave is moving to Cuba for work! It is phenomenal, and he will make lots of money, and have adventures, and do something with nickel, and drink mojitos, and probably get some really interesting parasites. I’m terribly excited for him and looking forward to visiting, especially after he drunkenly texted me an official invitation. No go-backsies, mi amor!

There is a part of me gloomily saying, in the heavy accent of my middle-brain, “Oh! How sad that he must go! For Dave Gordon ees a good man. He waits up for cabs with me, leaning against the washing machine! He attends events as my gigolo. Always he makes me laugh, and prevents me from killing that one guy in our carpool; and he banters wittily, which is so very rare, for so few people have that skill! Of all my surviving friends he surely is the most adventurous, and loyal, and amusing, and true. He always tries to make me feel included. He helped end my seven-month unemployment streak! When things get tough, he always watches over I, like some kind of gropey gropey angel. And he has never tried to kick me in the junk! There is, truly, no doom on his watch. How sad that he must go. A single tear rolls down my cheek.”

But then there’s another part of me remembering that I turned my back on him for ninety seconds at my housewarming party and ended up with this on my fridge.

So the final verdict is instead, don’t let the door hit you on the way out, you squinty-eyed communist bastard!

(Long-distance hug)