My Pal

It was seventh grade.  I had just sold my soul for a mini Reese’s Cup to Vincent Iadevaia.  I was then informed I was going to hell, because not having a soul apparently disqualifies you from heaven.  Eleven years old and panicking, another kid from the lunch table next to me asked if he could borrow a nickel to buy a bag of Sun Chips, I responded, “I’ll give you a nickel if you give me your soul.”  He gave me a dirty look and left.

That is a true story.

Fast forward eleven years later.  The kid, who’s soul I tried to buy, is now my best friend (he still hasn’t sold me his soul and I’m still soulless, but whatever.) His name is John Rafanelli.

We first started hanging out in ninth grade, running track and playing cards.  We then went to Fordham University, graduated, and found ourselves in a post grad malaise.  Highlights include, road tripping to Miami for spring break, Bonnaroo, doing literally thousands of drafts (including, but not limited to, FIFA drafts, music festival drafts, girls from high school drafts), and imagining how and what order our friends would die if our life was a horror movie (spoiler alert: I die second).

He’s one of only three people to shave my neck (the others being my sister and father).

He’s sometimes very rude to waiters.  Though he doesn’t mean to be.

I’ve unsuccessfully tried to nickname him Nelly.

He’s enlisted in the Army now.  Although, he won’t actually be joining the army for another two years (he first is attending a military grad school in Georgia).

He left for Georgia today.

He’s the taller one, I’m the dumber one.

   See ya in a little, pal.

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