My friends are old. From ten years ago where the party would start at 10 pm and end after breakfast at Mr. Kabab, we are now cracking open bottles of wine at 5 pm and ending at 8. From them bringing random girls around to parties they now talk about the name game song and how their daughters are growing up. This is quite a disturbing, yet comforting thought to have as we wind down to later in our lives when everyone has settled down and well, still laughing about the same stories they’ve been repeating since I’ve known them.
They didn’t start out as my friends, rather my sister’s. But they have adopted me as their own and sometimes forget that I’m three years younger, telling me about a random classmate from somewhere that I don’t really remember. And other times they think I’m too mature for my age so they left me alone, without notice to wake up in a tent in Puerto Galera at the age of 16. (It was my first trip without my parents, thanks guys)
They are the most dependable and the most undependable group of friends I know. We never expect them to show up when they call two days before, but don’t get surprised when they say they’re on their way over (or just randomly show up at the house with food).
So maybe in five years I’ll be writing about them getting even older, but hey, life happens.