Today you would have turned forty-four years old. I can't imagine you being that old. I can't believe I'm even older than that! In the past four-plus years that you've been missing in action (aka dead ~ but I hate using that word as an adjective to describe my little brother) I've gotten to know you quite well and have taken to embracing the somewhat unsavory traits we have in common.
One thing we have in common is our tendency to be compulsive. I know, you're laughing at the understatement, but this letter is going to be posted for all to see so I want to be kind. As I write this I'm chowing on an endless supply of M&Ms sitting next to me on the table. I can't stop. Compulsive. But I don't have to tell you that; you've probably got that all-knowing thing going for you now.
To be even more specific, we have the gambling compulsion in common. I don't know about you, but I love losing myself in the dark casino, enveloped in the smoke while having a cocktail or two, my head ringing with the bells and clangs of the slots. It's like a drug, and when you take it you forget all about everything else. Such a glorious escape.
Some people will honor your birthday by going to church and saying a prayer. Me? Yeah, right. I'm headed for the casino to slip a hundo into that lovely lady called Chance. I know you'll be right there with me. Do me a favor and pull some of that supernatural stuff so I can hit a jackpot or two and quit my day job. For a dinner break I'll have a heaping plateful of peel-and-eat shrimp and toast you with a tall glass of chocolate milk. Because that's what we do.
Happy Birthday, Diggy. Ya big weirdo.