There are some things

a father and daughter should just not discuss. Fecal sacks and breast feeding rank at the top of that list. Particularly in the same conversation.
My father observes no such boundaries or rules of decorum. Whatever pops into his fetid little head comes right out of his mouth. He called to say Happy Thanksgiving this morning, and instead read to me from his medical reports detailing all of his newest, shiniest ailments. Included in the litany of diabolical afflictions which he imagines will eventually kill him, was acute pressure on the fecal sack secondary to a slipped disk in his back, at which point he informed me "I can't stand up straight, and Ifeel like I have to shit all the time." Nice. From his pressurized ass, he ventured to my breasts and whether or not I still nurse my infant son. Ten minutes later, after hearing all about what a saint my mother was for nursing all five of us, even after we had teeth, I answered that I was, indeed, still nursing Count Latchula. For this, I received the verbal equivalent of a good game ass slap. "Ah, good girl. You know that's what they're there for. And they look nice too. Hehe. Hehe. Hehe." Good. God. Kill me now. I can't believe I share the man's DNA. I live for the day my mother tells me she had an affair and I'm her love child.

Happy Thanksgiving hookers! May you have poop-free dinner conversations!

New Decade, New Perspective

For as long as I can remember, 30 has been the magic number, the number I've feared and anticipated since I was a child. It has always been the number of adulthood, the magic number at which I would become old. I remember being a kid and thinking that anyone in their 30's was close to death and must be so scared to be almost done living. I was a dumb kid. While I've grown and come to realize just how far from death 30 is, on some level, that thinking stuck with me. I began to see 30 as the death of my youth, the beginning of a period in my life where it would be unacceptable to be child-like at all. I relish acting like a child! My inner twelve year old boy needs air time at least once a day! The thought of having to be grown up all the time was depressing. All last year, I was displeased about my impending change of decade. I, at various times, wanted to skip the day entirely and pass quietly into a new decade without ceremony or notice. Thinking that, if I paid it no attention, the adultness of the number wouldn't apply to me. The closer the day came, the more upset I got. And then my friends stepped in. Most of my friends are older than me. All of them are successful, independent, amazing women. They all told me how ridiculous I was being, that 30 was way better than 20, and a whole host of other things that were wise and sensical. So I entered the day pensively. I examined my every feeling and twinge, every creak of my spine and crack of my joints, and realized they're the same damn twinges, creaks, and cracks I've had since I was 16. I walked through the day owning my adultness, and enjoying the fact that I can still act like a complete retard, and exercise that inner twelve year old boy, without losing and adult-cred. The surprising thing about turning 30 has been the validation I feel. I feel like I've earned my place in the adult world, and it's not such a bad thing. During my 20's, I felt like an imposter, like a little kid playing at being an adult in an adult world. And although it wasn't a conscious thing, I believe that underlying feeling of 'faking it' kept me from doing things I need and want to do, like pursuing an advanced degree and taking on certain posts at work. But now that I'm 30, I'm a real adult. I've earned the right to be where I am. I belong in the adult world. And I like it. Thank you bitches.

It's been 3 years

and I finally feel ok. There have been days where I felt as if I couldn't make it through the daylight hours because the sadness was so intense, the anger all consuming, and the brightness of the sun was an insult to my pain, assaulting me with it's light and warmth. But they have lessened in numbered and intensity. Time hasn't made it any better. It's just made it different. I've finally come to a point where I've accepted that he's not coming back. He won't need his art supplies, his back pack, or a ride anymore. It's ok to give them to someone else. He won't call in the middle of the night and leave ridiculous messages, or silly songs on my voicemail anymore. It's ok to stop looking for the messages. He's gone, and I'm ok.

For a while, after he died, I saw a therapist. She was a complete joke, but in talking to her, I realized something, or rather, I acknowledged something. My brother's death forced to the fore-front my life-long struggle with my lack of faith. It just isn't there. I have never really believed in a god. Ever. I have tried. I have pretended. I have agonized over it. It's. Just. Not. There. I see the world in a scientific way. Things live. Things die. Everything serves a purpose, supports something else, and then goes away to make room for the next cycle, the next species, the next phase of evolution. My brother died. There isn't room on the planet for everyone to stay forever. It was his turn to go. It's ok. For a long time, I felt guilty for feeling that way. And now I don't. The retarded therapist said that I needed to accept my loss, to make peace with his death. I don't. I accept that he's never coming back. I acknowledge that he's gone. There's no peace to be made with those things. They are facts, indisputable facts. I am not at war with his death. I was at war with myself, with my misguided notions of what grief should be, and what the 'appropriate' way to mourn his death was. I was angry with myself for not being able to just accept that there is a god so that I'd have a place to direct my anger, something to blame for my rage at his death, frustrated with my 'stubbornness'. But that war is over. I have finally come to the realization that I am accountable to no one for my grief, my opinions, my loss. They are mine to deal with as I choose. Am I angry that my brother died? Hell yes, and never moreso than when I see some shitbag masquerading as human stumbling around taking up space and using up oxygen, doing nothing to better this world. But I'm ok. My brother died to make room for someone, something, else, better, more, new. While he was here, he used his time. The world is a better place for having had him in it. I am a better person for having known and loved him. And even though he's gone, I'm ok.