nurture
In a sick way i derive pleasure whenever something depressing about my life comes up in conversation. Of particular interest is my biological father and his whereabouts, or rather whether or not he is bald or going to be bald. Both questions and a host of others i can not answer. For i haven't seen a single member of that side of my family, save my grandmother, since i was thirteen, so at least 11 years and counting.
When i say as much, the people doing the asking sometimes get real quiet, and i can imagine that in their silence they are putting little pieces in place, maybe excusing some of my behavior retroactively, feeling as if they have a new perspective into my heart. As if it was childhood trauma that coils inside, instead of what i really am, which is selfish, vain and lazy.
I came from a great but cluttered household, with a stepfather that in all aspects is much better then the one God initially stuck me with. But what kind of story is that? It much more fun watching people picture me as a ward of the state. A wild haired boy wearing a stranger's hand me downs, maybe one baseball glove with no partner, kicking a half deflated soccer ball across the cracked concrete of my youth. Across all the stereotypical pictures of a broken home, please insert me and use such images to excuse away behavior best left in the gutter.
When i say as much, the people doing the asking sometimes get real quiet, and i can imagine that in their silence they are putting little pieces in place, maybe excusing some of my behavior retroactively, feeling as if they have a new perspective into my heart. As if it was childhood trauma that coils inside, instead of what i really am, which is selfish, vain and lazy.
I came from a great but cluttered household, with a stepfather that in all aspects is much better then the one God initially stuck me with. But what kind of story is that? It much more fun watching people picture me as a ward of the state. A wild haired boy wearing a stranger's hand me downs, maybe one baseball glove with no partner, kicking a half deflated soccer ball across the cracked concrete of my youth. Across all the stereotypical pictures of a broken home, please insert me and use such images to excuse away behavior best left in the gutter.