Conor came to visit this weekend. Sort of. At some point he noted the pressure that surrounds our friendship at every second, in that the sum of its parts essentially amounts to a competition more than it does a friendship. It was an astute comment. I noticed my already-stellar sense of humor unconsciously sharpening to a point this weekend.
Soon, a terrifying existential crisis began to form. Without my friends from home, without Conor, do I simply deteriorate slowly into nothingness? Do I depend on him for personality sustenance? What am I without him? My unstoppable comedy was quickly replaced by mortifying fear and chewed fingernails. I kept all lights dimmed for fear of seeing my own reflection in the mirror, or worse, Conor's. I began to dwell on what makes Conor me.
My entire pattern of speech, apparently, and all the jokes I make. Much of my being, really, has been his result. I say this not under my own conclusion but on the conviction of every single person that has ever interacted with both of us. Repeatedly, friends of Conor's who are acclimated with his style of speaking will see a picture of my face and conclude that I talk exactly like him. I don't understand how this is. After double-digit occurrences, though, it's hard to continue ignoring it. There is a pattern here, and an unarguable conclusion which must be drawn: I am Conor.