It hurts when, being the oldest son in the family, your dad-- father, I mean [difference there; ask me some other time] never calls to see "howzit, kid?"
Not once in 7 months of his grand-daughters' birth have I been on the receiving end of a call, social, familial or otherwise.
I think, in the same 7 months, I heard from my half-brother... let's see... Once? On facebook? mafia wars request? I think so, yah...
And my sister-- she messaged me to tell me to call my dad. On father's day-- or my father on dad's ... what the fuck ever.
Yeah. I was at Wisteria. No phone signal. Notice I didn't miss any messages from my whelp, either.
And my ... and Flower. I don't visit 'blog' anymore; I don't read the words that 'supposedly' won me.
Eighteen months later, and don't want to write on blogger, because I don't want those who know me online-- those who I might still convince I am capable of, against all odds, succeeding-- I can't journal my failures to be a real man here daily. I can't take the shame. Sorry...
No, baby momma. No, father. No, sis.
I don't like me. I don't show me.
Slainte.
