An Extremely late Father's Day post.

When I get married to my soul mate, besides the affection and attention that I will show her to prove my love, I will also have the date that we became life partners tattooed on my body. Ok, I'm lying, the real reason that I will have that specific date etched on my person is because I am forgetful as fuck when it comes to dates. Seriously, whenever I am in a relationship do you know what 6 words I dread the most? No, it's not "I'm pregnant motherfucker, pay up bitch!!", after sex hearing "I used to be a man", or "You have a toddler sized penis!". The six words that I cringe as soon as they enter my eardrums are "Do you know what today is?'

Yeah, there are only two anniversaries that I remember every year like clockwork. The first is the anniversary of being dropped like a bad habit by a woman that I thought I would marry one day. I can always tell that one because it was early spring when that happened, so when it starts getting warm I know that a few years ago I foolishly considered taking my own life. The second is the death of my father, because of the mass commercialism of holidays in general I am reminded of father's day, so when it comes around I have the wonderful recollection of nurses dumping ice cubes on my father's body as his temperature skyrocketed, minutes later him dying right in front of me.

Since his passing I have had to juggle so many things in my head, our turbulent relationship, his verbal abuse, my love for the man when he could at times be the coolest motherfucker in the world, knowing that at the end of the day he truly loved me, random people accusing him of a slew of shit that I don't know is even true, wishing that I wasn't such a bastard and just gave in sometimes, having a family member tell me that she was glad that he was dead, coming to grips with the fact that I inherited his anger and his sharp tongue, and last but not least, the ghetto ass "Six Feet Under" impressions that my mind puts me through because of the 200 plus dreams that I have had where me and my father have these nocturnal, in-depth conversations.

Each year gets easier, and each year I feel less and less like an emotional basket case ready to go to a concert where your garden variety wack rap artist is performing and going on a MOTHERFUCKING KILLING SPREE.(Who am I shitting, I think about doing that when I'm in the best of moods) Each year I feel a little less certain that I will curse my unborn babies with my inherited verbal venom and self loathing, each year I feel a little better about not being an old man with rooms full of porn and a house full of cats. Hey, I know that in this age of therapy I sound like one of those whining malcontented pussies who want to blame their parents for their problems, that's why this is the year I take this grief by the hair, turn it around, and whisper in it's ear "Who's your daddy motherfucker!!"(That's hoping that my grief is indeed a female, because otherwise that would just be fucking weird.) With that being said, this post isn't dedicated to those motherfucking sperm donors, this is dedicated to all the Fathers out there taking care of their kids.