Brother of Mine

See that kid? That's my brother. His name is Morgan.

We used to fight a lot. Then one day a few years ago, after a big fight, we both said, Well that was dumb. We sat on the front porch to think of ways to stop fighting. The solution? Fishsticks. Not the gross, greasy food, but the word. Here's the deal we said. If we fight and I say Fishsticks, that means I agree to drop the argument completely. If I say Fishsticks and keep arguing, I owe you $5. If you keep arguing, then you owe me $5. Secretly we were hoping to make a fortune off each other, but that didn't work. We haven't even fought since then.

Morgan's a pretty cool guy. In fact, if we were Netflix movies and if Netflix was all about cool, he'd be a 4.5 star, and I'd be like a 3. And get this- he's 15 and talks to girls. Like has conversations. Wow.

He's pretty hilarious too. I'd tell you one of our inside jokes to prove it, but then it wouldn't be an inside joke. So take my word for it.

If it wasn't for Morgan, none of my stuff would work. My computer, iPod, phone, printer, and doorknob all owe their health to him. He just messes with it for 2 minutes, and it obeys him like he's some kind of techno god.

He can chop wood and build fires.

He can do math.

Part of the reason why I'm glad we don't fight is because he's a lot stronger than I am.

He lets me pop his zits.

When I tell him to pull up his pants, sometimes he does.

I can tell him secrets and talk about boys, and he just listens.

We sneak ice cream out of the carton together. And we don't tell.

When I practice late at night next door to his room, he doesn't whine.

He hangs out with me and my friends without being annoying.

He laughs at my lame jokes and tells me when they're too lame to repeat to anyone outside the family.

Pretty much, we're friends.