My brother turned 30 on Tuesday. I used to constantly joke with him about how old he was, and now he’s been alive for three decades. I’m going to rub this in for as long as I can.

I’ve already mentioned a couple of stories about him, and last week I documented an entire conversation with him. That barely scratches the surface on what we talk about, though.

I’m lucky to have him in my life. I know that probably sounds sweet and cheesy, but I don’t care. It’s true, and It’s my column, so I’ll do what I want.

He really has become my best friend. We’ve been through a lot together, and I have so many ridiculous memories and stories with him.

I was born exactly one year and 50 weeks after my brother, Daniel.

I used to hear the story about our first meeting from my mom all the time. He didn’t care too much for me during the nine months she carried me, and he was apparently so over my birth immediately after it happened.

He had been at home playing with my grandmother all day. He was having a ball. After all, his parents weren’t around and my grandmother would let him get away with anything.

My mom told me that my dad called my grandmother as soon as I was born, and she loaded up her old, red Chevy pickup and brought him in to see me when I was just a few hours old.

He was brought over to the side of her bed, and my grandmother held him and leaned him down to get a closer look.

He apparently looked at me for less than 30 seconds, and then got antsy and demanded to be put down.

He then climbed up in a wheelchair and asked a nurse to push him around. She obliged because even then he was pretty stubborn.

That was my first interaction with my brother. Thankfully a lot has changed. We can spend more than 30 seconds at a time together.

The two of us are so much alike. We’re always cracking stupid jokes, and our Twitter feeds are ridiculous. We don’t fight much anymore, and while there were some pretty bad beatdowns on both sides back in the day, most of the time it was just verbal even then. We are the most sarcastic people on the planet, and we like to just roast each other over dumb stuff all the time.

But, that’s my brother. That’s part of it. That’s how it’s always going to be. I text him just about every day, and I try to see him most Sundays.

He’s my partner in crime — that’s almost literal, too. We had a MARTA police officer pull a gun on us in a parking lot in 2013. But, hey, that’s a story for another day.

In 2010, Daniel and I went to our very first Phish show — you guys are really going to get tired of hearing about this — in New York City on New Year’s Eve.

We’ve gone to about 12 other shows together since then, and honestly probably 20 or more other concerts of other artists in Birmingham, Atlanta or the surrounding area.

I used to make fun of Daniel and joke about how old he was. I joked that he was the world’s oldest single dad — he doesn’t have a kid, btw, but he has very dad-like qualities. He loves collecting vinyl records and talking about government conspiracies, and that dude could fill a book with his useless knowledge. He has had quite a long time on earth to learn it, I guess.

But that doesn’t necessarily mean he’s old. He’s not old, and he still has his whole life ahead of him, of course.

At least that’s what I keep telling myself. After all, I’m only a year and 50 weeks away from my 30th birthday.

Managing Editor Bradley Roberts’ column appears Wednesdays. His email address is broberts@times-journal.com.

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