Deadass, a good man.
Will cook for you, like legit whatever you want. Bet.
Listens for real, remembers your dog’s name (W move).
Dogs follow him, not even joking.
Supports women’s rights and wrongs—he’s him, bro.
Wrote a book? Yeah, but he’s not cringe about it.
Plays clicker games for kids learning to code for hours.
Not sus, not mid—just a real one.
Look at the fucking frosting stars.
After a solid decade of birthdays with nothing but existential dread and cheap wine, someone actually baked me a cake. Not just any cake. A cherry cake. He gives people a sense of importance that is unmistakable. In his presence, people become central rather than peripheral. For those unaccustomed to mattering, that shift is profound. It’s the kind of recognition that becomes a reason to endure.Thanks for the cake, Doug. I'll bake you a cake someday.
He’s the person who always shows up when something breaks. Wi-Fi issues, furniture that needs assembling, the bathroom shelf that finally gave up. If it were possible to fix a life the way he repairs a loose hinge or a tangled network, I have no doubt he’d do that for me, too. Some people solve problems. He makes them disappear and for a moment, everything feels manageable again. Deadass.
He recognizes experience without minimizing or correcting it, regardless of how implausible or unruly it sounds. He listens, registers the reality of others, and refuses to default to dismissal or perform authority. No one is made to feel excessive in his presence. His priorities are transparent: friends and family come first. He’ll finish a tedious clicker game designed by a teenager simply because it matters to someone he values. He shows up with chicken nuggets because it’s the answer at that moment. He reads what you write and doesn’t skim for summary; he absorbs, considers, remembers. He checks in without prompting. If you drift toward the void, he tries to pull you back; if you’re already there, he doesn’t avoid it—he stays with you until you can surface.