(no subject)
"you look like lucille ball on LSD"
"thanks Dad"
"you know, whatever it is that you've done in your past, it shouldn't matter to him. if he truly cares for you, he'll be able to look past all that shit."
he paused, as he always does, to take a drag from his cigarette.
"for all that you're saying, you could have forgotten to tell him you were a lesbian troll all this time. it shouldn't matter"
but it does.
i let him continue though, trying not to defend, trying not to add more facts into something that presented itself as a universal and common situation. despite these reasons for silence, if i had decided to say anything, anything at all, he would have shot me down in his typical holier-than-thou-been-through-hell-and-back-whereupon-i-had-you kind of way he had.
"he should feel more than lucky to have someone like you. you're smart, funny, loving, giving. if this is what he wants to do, it's his loss."
another quick drag and a brief cough to dislodge years of congestion for a minute or two before the next one.
"he does feel lucky..."
"apparently not."
cry, cry, tear, tear.
i never knew my dad had the capability to say such nice things to me without some sort of prodding occasion or reason.
"would you mind not wearing that metal shit in your face when you come to see me? you look like a fucking retard"
(pause)
"from far away it looks like you have some disease."
"thanks dad."
"i'm just telling you."
we sat in silence just as we always do when we come to these strange halts in conversation. as usual, smoking an oh-so-familiar cigarette (du Maurier light king-size) and elevating one side of himself so that he remained on some kind of tilting upwards level with his body. one arm resting on the chair, the other propped up on his desk holding that cigarette.
i think he does this so that he has easier access to allow his coughs to always rise up, possibly have more effect or release from his lungs in a more beneficial way.
or maybe it's just a simple physical quirk.
our silence carries on for a minute or two before he shifts in his seat; he realizes he's quickly falling asleep and cigarette ash ominously threatens to spill on either him or papers strewn on his desk.
"boy am i ever tired."
"you're always tired."
"yeah, well you wait until you get to this age."
puff, puff, drag, drag.
"so what do you need from me? you did come here for something, didn't you?"
"no."
"oh, don't give me that bullshit."
"i didn't come here for anything, honestly. i just came by to say hi."
"well, HI."
he smiles sarcastically as he says it, inwardly laughing at this oddball of a daughter before him.
"hi."
i never really k now what he thinks of me and i'm not sure i ever will. i know he thinks i'm lovinggivingsmartfunny but the pressing question is his thoughts on my existence. what does he think of how i turned out with regards to his influence, his personality and his own existence. it's possible he sees a confused version of him in me but in girl form with a severe lacking of what reality is. i should ask one day. one day when i have the courage to break down barriers built up in our dysfunction of family.
"so, you have food to eat?"
"yes, i have food to eat."
"do you have money to buy food?"
"i have food at home."
"no. do you have money to buy food?"
"yes. i went shopping last week and stocked up on food."
"ok. good."
puff, puff, drag, drag.
"thanks Dad"
"you know, whatever it is that you've done in your past, it shouldn't matter to him. if he truly cares for you, he'll be able to look past all that shit."
he paused, as he always does, to take a drag from his cigarette.
"for all that you're saying, you could have forgotten to tell him you were a lesbian troll all this time. it shouldn't matter"
but it does.
i let him continue though, trying not to defend, trying not to add more facts into something that presented itself as a universal and common situation. despite these reasons for silence, if i had decided to say anything, anything at all, he would have shot me down in his typical holier-than-thou-been-through-hell-and-back-whereupon-i-had-you kind of way he had.
"he should feel more than lucky to have someone like you. you're smart, funny, loving, giving. if this is what he wants to do, it's his loss."
another quick drag and a brief cough to dislodge years of congestion for a minute or two before the next one.
"he does feel lucky..."
"apparently not."
cry, cry, tear, tear.
i never knew my dad had the capability to say such nice things to me without some sort of prodding occasion or reason.
"would you mind not wearing that metal shit in your face when you come to see me? you look like a fucking retard"
(pause)
"from far away it looks like you have some disease."
"thanks dad."
"i'm just telling you."
we sat in silence just as we always do when we come to these strange halts in conversation. as usual, smoking an oh-so-familiar cigarette (du Maurier light king-size) and elevating one side of himself so that he remained on some kind of tilting upwards level with his body. one arm resting on the chair, the other propped up on his desk holding that cigarette.
i think he does this so that he has easier access to allow his coughs to always rise up, possibly have more effect or release from his lungs in a more beneficial way.
or maybe it's just a simple physical quirk.
our silence carries on for a minute or two before he shifts in his seat; he realizes he's quickly falling asleep and cigarette ash ominously threatens to spill on either him or papers strewn on his desk.
"boy am i ever tired."
"you're always tired."
"yeah, well you wait until you get to this age."
puff, puff, drag, drag.
"so what do you need from me? you did come here for something, didn't you?"
"no."
"oh, don't give me that bullshit."
"i didn't come here for anything, honestly. i just came by to say hi."
"well, HI."
he smiles sarcastically as he says it, inwardly laughing at this oddball of a daughter before him.
"hi."
i never really k now what he thinks of me and i'm not sure i ever will. i know he thinks i'm lovinggivingsmartfunny but the pressing question is his thoughts on my existence. what does he think of how i turned out with regards to his influence, his personality and his own existence. it's possible he sees a confused version of him in me but in girl form with a severe lacking of what reality is. i should ask one day. one day when i have the courage to break down barriers built up in our dysfunction of family.
"so, you have food to eat?"
"yes, i have food to eat."
"do you have money to buy food?"
"i have food at home."
"no. do you have money to buy food?"
"yes. i went shopping last week and stocked up on food."
"ok. good."
puff, puff, drag, drag.