There's not enough pills, pasta and pilsner on the fucking planet to blot out the pain and anger I feel when someone innocently asks me,"How was your Mother's Day?"
Or,"What're ya doin' fer Father's Day?"
Don't ask me these questions. Any honest answer would be require at least a mutually unpleasant hour to answer. Who's got time for that anyway?
Because the sun isn't even up yet and I can't go back to sleep. If I close my eyes I see nothing but drying blood on white walls. I remember holding the coldest hand I will ever touch.
That's what I did this Mother's Day. That's what I'm doing every Mother's Day for the rest of my fucking life.
Sometimes every night seems like Mother's Day.
My dad taught me how to shoplift. He didn't exactly show me how , but sometimes there wasn't any food in the house , so my brother and I would liberate junk food from the 7-11. One Thanksgiving we tracked our dad down at the local watering hole and he took us across the parking lot to a fucking Jack-in-the-Box burger joint. "Get anything you want",he said.
I hate Father's Day and anything else that reminds me of him. I hate anything that makes me wonder what kind of parent I would be. I fucking hate Father's Day.
Can't we just combine the two "holidays"? I'd call this new holiday "Free Liqour to Bitter Children Day". Or "Angry Ghost Day".
Yeah, I fucking love these crap "HOLIDAYS".