Four. The number of years we've worked together.

Four. The number of years he's teased me. Insulted me.

Hundreds. The number of planets we've visited.

Thousands. The number of jokes he tells in the space of 24 hours.

Three. The amount of those jokes I find funny.

Hundreds. The amount of those jokes that are about me.

Five hundred. How many times he's saved my ass.

Zero. How many times I've really thanked him for it.

Zero. The number of times he's truely cried in front of me.

Twice that amount. His IQ.

Forty. The number of times he'll hit me for that remark.

A million dollars. The amount it's worth just to see him grin like that
again.

Zero. His tolerence for anyone else but us. His team.

Infinate. His tolerence for me.

Thirty. Number of times we'd rented movies with eachother last year.

Twleve. The number of times this year.

Forty two. The number of his old hair dye.

Fifty two. The number of times he's denied using hair dye.

Too young. The age of his son when he died.

Too much. The amount of guilt he carries.

Nine. The number of Jacks I've met in my life.

Three. The number of Jacks I've liked.

One. Then number of Jack's I've loved.

Priceless. Jack.
******