Dear Hansen

Dear Hansen,

I’m still finding your shit amongst my junk after 15 years. I love you, man, but there’s a pink plastic jesus that, when shaken, tells me the future, a dried up pomegranate that will never convince me that pomegranates are edible, even though I know that’s why you left it. There’s a broken katana, which honestly is still pretty cool, a rubber stay-puff-marshmallow-man and one of every obscure art supply known to man. Oh, and a crocodile…or alligator…I can’t be bothered to check.

Right now he’s looking at me from his perch on the broken drafting table you left behind. His teeth are pearly, his grin says that he wants to bite; I run my fingers over their enamel and if I pressed, I would bleed. Where the fuck did you get the severed and shellacked head of a reptile and why did you leave him here laughing at me, mocking me, reminding me that my only true friend moved to California?

You probably got him in art school—your art school was weirder than mine. Sometimes I think I should have sabotaged your artistic rise, broken your drive, introduced you to drugs and alcohol…well…more alcohol…helped you fail so I could have kept you here in my pocket forever. You, me and Chauncey Willexander make three. (That’s what I named the Crocodile.)

Love you,

Gabe