Write Some More You Lazy Fuck
From The Pussy
I had a new OKCupid message. Got excited for a second. It was a man. He said: write some more you lazy fuck.
My dad died Monday morning. I was fresh off the plane back in LA. Made amends on his deathbed. He was in and out of consciousness. Who knows if he heard what the fuck I said. You sacrificed for my education and all I did was get high. You wrote me letters and I never wrote back. I blew off my brothers. Patrick went to college in California and I only saw him twice. This was selfish, isolating and disrespectful of me and I want to make amends for it.
He’d come in and out. A tube dripped vanilla Ensure straight into his stomach while a pump breathed for him through his tracheotomy. Hoses and catheters and his feet raised up on cushions to drain his swollen ankles. They gave him Haldol; he was struggling. His kidneys were shot so the drugs didn’t fade. He just kept nodding off. Dad I want you to know that I’m gonna be closer to my brothers. My stepmom. That I’m gonna be there for them.
He died. I was at work. Kept working while white noise filled my head and chest and I couldn’t cry until I got home and saw a picture of him on Facebook. Finally that site was good for something.
The Dirty Mexican Cunt is living with me now. She was a professional grief counselor. The old joke is: whore in the bedroom chef in the kitchen. I forget what the third one is. Should be whore in the bedroom, grief counselor every other place. A whore for five minutes and then it’s OK baby it’s OK. She’s with me because of this web site. Haven’t posted in two weeks. Write some more you lazy fuck.
He’d wake up restrained and start screaming: hide the guns. I didn’t shoot anybody. Thought he was in jail in Texas. On the trip out West with Santangelo and O’Hara– I’m using fake names, but they’re actually less guinea/ mick than the real ones. Fakes because Santangelo killed a (REDACTED) and he might still be alive somewhere. Dad had cops in three towns plus the staties after him because he (REDACTED). I don’t know what O’Hara did. Back then you could just leave town.
Tonight, back on a plane for the funeral. In between– work, come home. The poor girl– I brought her here to party. Get some drama. Last time I got four good posts out if it. Now she holds me at night and I cry. I think about impregnating her. Have a kid I can take to the lake.
Maybe I’ll get some ashes. On Christmas I’m climbing Mexico’s tallest volcano. Seems like his speed. But when I go, take me to the lake where he took me. We watched the rain beat the water flat. Crouch down, line up your eyes right and see the curve of the Earth. I need to get back.