Write about your father.
What is there to say?
I promised Emma I wouldn't brood anymore, so...
He wasn't all that bad. He just wasn't there all the time, when I needed him to be. When mom needed him to be there. And even when he was home, it wasn't like he was actually around. Brooding in a chair at the kitchen table. Listening to the radio and television reports on what units were where. Phonecalls to the base.
Talking about how he wanted to get back over there. Wanted to get back out there with his men and fight. Bomb those Vietnamese into submission. Win the war for our country. Pride. Honor.
Where was the dedication to the family?
He'd rather be getting shot at, than watching me take shots on the goal? He'd rather be lying in a muddy trench, than lying in a warm bed with the woman he loved? He'd rather be risking his life a million miles away, than living a normal life right here at home?
What the hell kind of shit is that?
I spoke with him a few months ago. He went on about how I was 'well off' compared to some of the boys he'd served with. I still had my two legs -- I made a comment about how I had three if you counted the cane, he glared -- and I was a well respected professional. Yeah. Respected.
Right.
Long story short, I was irritated, and due to the fact that my wife happened to be in attendance as well, she got irritated, and promptly stood up to him and put him in his place. At first I was shocked. Nobody, not even me, spoke to him like that. Then I realized that she'd done what I'd been unable to do for 45 years.
Tell it like it is.
We're not speaking, again. And I don't really give a damn. I'm not missing anything, anyways.
Dr. Greg House
House
Word Count: 311
I promised Emma I wouldn't brood anymore, so...
He wasn't all that bad. He just wasn't there all the time, when I needed him to be. When mom needed him to be there. And even when he was home, it wasn't like he was actually around. Brooding in a chair at the kitchen table. Listening to the radio and television reports on what units were where. Phonecalls to the base.
Talking about how he wanted to get back over there. Wanted to get back out there with his men and fight. Bomb those Vietnamese into submission. Win the war for our country. Pride. Honor.
Where was the dedication to the family?
He'd rather be getting shot at, than watching me take shots on the goal? He'd rather be lying in a muddy trench, than lying in a warm bed with the woman he loved? He'd rather be risking his life a million miles away, than living a normal life right here at home?
What the hell kind of shit is that?
I spoke with him a few months ago. He went on about how I was 'well off' compared to some of the boys he'd served with. I still had my two legs -- I made a comment about how I had three if you counted the cane, he glared -- and I was a well respected professional. Yeah. Respected.
Right.
Long story short, I was irritated, and due to the fact that my wife happened to be in attendance as well, she got irritated, and promptly stood up to him and put him in his place. At first I was shocked. Nobody, not even me, spoke to him like that. Then I realized that she'd done what I'd been unable to do for 45 years.
Tell it like it is.
We're not speaking, again. And I don't really give a damn. I'm not missing anything, anyways.
Dr. Greg House
House
Word Count: 311