Friday, February 13th, 2014
Happy Birthday! Thank you for being my dad, and a great dad at that. I love you. I hope you're enjoying your trip to California - try to soak up the weather because it's pretty chilly here. Really fucking chilly.
Good news: Mercury left retrograde (I'm not sure if you know what that means, but it's a good thing), I slept last night (after vomiting the tequila shots I had pounded - I didn't inherit your ability to intake massive quantities of liquor, but then again you're really more of a rye kind of guy anyway), I ate today, got four new followers on Instagram, and I feel just fine.
I didn't leave bed, except for a cigarette. But, you know, it was a rough week. Sooner rather than later I'm going to cut back on cutting myself slack, but for at least two months now (really much longer, but let's not get too dramatic) I've been beating myself up. I've only been seeing the extra fat on my thighs and the blemishes on my face, the B+ and not the A, the love that I lost and not the love that I was lucky to have had. I've been seeing the world as a place with low ceilings and thick, muggy air; I've been feeling a force squeezing me so tight I can't escape, you know, like a straight jacket or something. But, you know, I'm really just fine, I realized today. The world's not really fine but… we'll debate that over our next family dinner. Anyway, it's difficult to forgive myself for giving up love I was lucky to have had, in a city that is cold even on the hottest summer days, and getting to that forgiveness might take a while. But I'm fine. I'm glad I can tell you this stuff, I'm glad you want to listen. Thanks, Poppa.
If I had to pick one song that reminds me of you, I think it would would be this one.
Happy birthday, Poppa! Here's to many more years of you being my dad. You've never been better at being a dad than you are right now, and I really appreciate it, because I really need you.
Love you so much,