I can (just barely) stomach talking to my “Dad” at intervals of several months:

As I’ve mentioned in several other posts, I’m not so much “angry” at my relatives, as utterly contemptuous of them:

For instance: I recognize that my “dad” was — and probably still is — basically a worthless asshole, who stumbled through life in one of two states: blackout-drunk, or being led around by his dick, by various (marginally-functional) bar-sluts.

For a while during my teens, he was essentially living in his car, and subsisting on Jim Beam.

I have zero “respect” for the guy even now, decades later, because — even though his current wife seems to be a genuinely nice person — I actually remember the scaggy, half-dead bitches he had “on the side”.

To be honest, the only reason I actually got back into contact with him at all was because he showed up at a gig ten years back, in a situation where it would have reflected badly on the rest of the group if I had been honest, and told him what to go do with himself.

I call him at intervals of a few months, primarily to appease my wife (who didn’t know him “back in the day”, and — in any case — is much more “sentimental” than I am, especially in regard to family.)

Mostly (during the few semi-obligatory conversations) I just listen to him blather on about his health problems (opioid-induced constipation, blood in his urine, etc.), while I pretend to be interested.

lately, however, he has taken to asking me whether I called my mother.

The answer is always “no” — and will remain that way.

Here are the reasons:

  1. If I attempt to call her, and the Junkie Psychopath is still living there: the subhuman THING would probably intercept the call.  If that happened, I would be required to expend effort talking to the idiotic sub-animal — either hearing it LIE about how I “took the whole thing out of context”, and/or hearing it DENY that the accusations/physical assault ever took place.

Fuck that.

2. Assuming that I actually *did* manage to talk to “Mom”, SHE would likely start babbling about the idiotic sub-animal, in which case I have no recourse but to hang up on her.  The only sort of “news” I want in regard to the junkie psychopath is: its OBITUARY, so I can take a shit on the grave.

Barring that: in the event that the Junkie sub-animal developed full-blown AIDS I would enjoy visiting it in hospice-care — for the sole purpose of punching it in the throat repeatedly, to make it cry.

I have no interest in whether the junkie THING ever manages to “kick” heroin/trick some hapless woman into a ‘relationship” etc.  I also have no interest in further enabling my so-called “mother” in her decades-long campaign of “ignoring”/covering up what everyone else has recognized as glaringly obvious for decades — including her deceased husband Frank.




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