Originally Posted by
chalice
As I sit, not quite drunk, quite stoned, I'm back, for the first instance in six months, in the house wherein my children reside. It's been difficult. I cannot lie. I keep glacing contempuosly to my immediate left, where slumbers on a resilient sofa, the obsessively compulsive object of my desires. Her being OCD, not your humble narrator, just to be clear. It's quite the chore not to argue with someone in the grips of said condition, especially if you're one a them argumentative types of cunts like wot I am.
Murder creeps to mind. A peircing anger rises in me almost hourly. Our conversations are pulled like badly tuned fiddle strings. All love gone. Except for mine. Before me, in a ps3 lit foreground squats my youngest and only biological son. Consumed entirely by Chistmas, firing furtive eye contact for approval when he splats a digitally rendered stock hostile alien in COD Ghosts, or whatever the fuck it's called. He should be in bed, but I'm making the most of the time before I have to sling my sorry hook tomorrow anon. Christmas being over. He's my last shot at immortality, my daughter trapped in her troglodyte, Aspergian transposition to society.
One reteival I'm grateful for is my eldest, not biologically, you understand, taking it upon himself to resume calling me 'dad' again after a traumatic reveal, for me in any case, that he wasn't spawned from my loins, only six months ago. The uppercut he delivered by calling me by my real forename for the first time was little short of devastating. He resumed my paternal nomination during Doctor Who yesterday and brought me great comfort in a simple three letter word, Dad.
Anyway, more tomorrow, if you can stand it, when I get access to a keyboard again, instead of this wank-a-doodle, suck a cawk-amamie kindle nonsense.
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