Yesterday was the first time that I've seen my dad in at least a month. For once, I did not get completely angry or use the phrase "mother fucker" in replying to him. Was the visit friendly? Not in the least, but it was interesting in a very ironic way.
One of the first things daddy asked was if I would like to read the first part of a book he is writing. He has been writing this so-called book for about four months now, so you can imagine my surprised when he handed me a crumpled up half sheet of paper containing two paragraphs. That sure is going to make a long book.
After reading my dad's "book", it came to me that I'd probably lost a few good brain cells on such a lousy story, and that bugged me. We loose brain cells every day just by partaking in the necessities of life, like smoking weed and breathing, I know that. Still, I would've like to have wasted them on something more meaningful and productive than my dad's non-bestseller "book."
When he asked me how it was, I simply nodded my head and gave him my eat-shit-and-die fake smile. He took that as a good sign and continued by philosophizing. The main purpose of this book of his is to piss every one off. Of course, he has to wait until his cataracts are removed, enabling him to see again, before he can get back to this mass screw-you-and-the-whore-who-brought-you-into-this-world (I call her "grandma") publication of his. Asking why it is that he feels the need to piss the world off only gave daddy a reason to keep babbling on in an ignorant, yet intelligent way. The only reason why his explanation was intelligent was because he's ignorant enough to believe it was.
Having completed his speech on the purpose of his book, my dad turned to me and asked how I was doing. In reply I simply said that my jaw is driving me crazy, not that I really needed any help; that my depression is letting up some, as well as a bit of my anxiety; my obsessive-compulsive behavior is okay sometimes, but there are those instances when it becomes too much for me. Upon hearing that brief update, daddy said that he had only one word of advice: God.
My laughter was cause enough for my dad to begin another speech, this time on the wonders of God and how I need to accept His word into my life. I laughed even harder at that.
"Daddy, I don't believe in God. If you do, that's great, but don't push that shit on me," I told him.
"You know, I feel for your physical pain, I really do. However, I can't feel for your...emotional problems. You are the mental one," daddy informed me.
Laughing, I said, "And how is that? I'm not the one shooting shit into my arm or swallowing my death sentence every time I take a drink of alcohol."
"You're crazy Alisha, and for one very big reason. That reason is this: you have not accepted Jesus Christ as your personal savior," daddy told me.
How could I not laugh at that man? He, who is a alcoholic-drug addict, was giving me spiritual advice. The entire situation tickled me. "Daddy," I started as I gained a bit of composure, "I really can't help but laugh. I'm getting religious advice from a man who's drank his life away and has track marks up and down his arm."
"Hey," he said, looking very defensive, "God forgives."
Our basic conversation went somewhat along the lines of that. At one point, my dad proclaimed that I'll never be as good of a writer as he is. Maybe it's just me, but I write more in a week than he's written in half a year, making me the one that's cultivating my skills, while he's staggering around, running into walls because he can't see a damn thing (or because he's extremely intoxicated with liquor or illegal drugs).
And yet I am the mental one. The irony of that entire situation makes the encounter with my dad well worth the aggravation.
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