Earl Jones did his job by not doing his job at all.

Like a turtle-heading-turd, I think I've taken my final literally dump in this Father's Day piece. For those of you reading that don't know me well, I haven't the best relationship with my father... or one at all really. I stopped talking to him when I was 10, 13, 16, and finally again last Christmas after he contacted me via Facebook. His contacting me was rather overwhelming; he'd been reading this blog and looking at my pictures of the ol' FB. He got the privilege to see who I've become, and even that small glimpse was too much (thus my profile is on the uber private business). If he doesn't catch this little ditty of a letter here, I've also sent it to him on the FB. Oh wait, I guess I deleted those messages... I guess this is my message in a bottle. I have got to get moving with my life, and there's nothing heavier than the weight of a Dead Beat Dad.

Dear Earl Jones

If I had something to say to you it would probably be this.
You owe me a lifetime of “sorry-s” that, quite frankly, I never want to hear.
Fly to New York, and bring some money,
You owe me a lifetime of that too.
Tell your mother I’m sorry she was too much of a coward
to continue a relationship with me
I never did forget about that herringbone necklace.
She promised me that.

I wonder about you often. Pains me to give you the pleasure to know.
In fact, your suffering is actually where this all stems from.
I never want you to know me. Ever. You actually have no right.
That, you brought down upon yourself far too long ago.
I on the other hand deserve some form of satisfaction.
The strands of your existence are strings I need cut
I fear I’ll never find the blade.

The effect of absence on those present lingers.
I don’t have normal relationships with men.
I don’t see a husband with my children, and me at my picket fence.
I’m a runner. And it’s you I thank for that.

I heard Father’s Day was coming around.
I wouldn’t know. But I’ll send my mother a card.
She’s done a wonderful job.

Now that’s most of that is off of my chest I’ll tell you this: I have a wonderful life. My mother, sisters, teachers, friends, and parents of my friends raised me well. I’ve never gone hungry. I’ve never been homeless. I don’t travel much, but I know that I will one day. I went to college. I lived in Los Angeles. I work in a restaurant, but I find my joys in writing, photography and consider myself an artist. I don’t miss you. Ever. I wonder about you, but I don’t miss you. I’m tired. I’m tired of feeling animosity towards you. I wonder why you didn’t fight harder when I sent you that letter as a ten year-old girl. I wonder why you let me push you away. You should’ve been a man. A father. Not a coward. For that I hated you, in my older age, I’m able to try to understand the overwhelming emotions that may have left you with. I’m happy that you didn’t die. I’m sure you’ve had sometime to wallow and think and the thought of that suffering brought me grave pleasures in the past. I’m done. I need to be happy. Unfortunately, as we are blood related, I believe you may need to also find some satisfaction in order for me to carry on. I hope you do. I want to be a better person in spite of the damage done.

I deserve that.

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