That means it has officially been two months since my father died. It also means I have been 31 for two months. That's correct. My father died on my day of birth. And I had a complicated, serrated, difficult relationship with my father. I loved him. I loved him dearly, but I also lost him to his weaknesses. I spend a lot of time crying because I can't remember what it was that tore us asunder. How did I lose him? I am realizing that we are very similar. Too similar.
My father was found dead behind a dumpster at a construction site in a shitty Texas town. He was a drunk, a druggie, and destitute. I'm moving down the same path myself. The only difference between the two of us is that I acquired a more extensive vocabulary and wasted four years of my life on a bullshit document. I have even had moments where I have thought it might be worth my time to go after yet another bullshit document. But that passes. I will probably end up in the same position as he did. Dead. Alone. Pathetic. But thank God I won't leave any angry children. Yes, I'm angry. I'm very pissed off at him. He gave up. I'm giving up, but how beautiful it may have been to have had a model of persistence and endurance. I shouldn't say that. I have that in my mother. But even she is too good for me.
I can't wait to leave this life.