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Okay, where was I?
And here I am once again at 3 in the am, struggling to find meaning in my current existence. If I did drugs, now would be the time to do them in excess. Damn my resolve to better my father. Damn him altogether.
Speaking of my father, one of the few things that made this move (what I will probably refer to as "operation: fat camp" in the future) worth it is the chance to reconnect with my mom. We've had many conversations about their divorce and my childhood. I told her this story last night.
The summer before I started junior high my sister and I were shipped to Wheeling, IL to live with my father and stepmom. My moms' alcoholism and inability to deal with us kids was peaking and my father had a new job. So there we landed. Turns out my father was just a little better at hiding his addictions, the move wasn't for the better. Anyway, for the first few years, my dad resorted to a more physical punishment when dealing with me. Hit with a broom stick or kicked down the stairs were par for the course. This all took place under the guise of normal family life. Sometimes it really did feel normal. As I got older, I decided to start lifting wights. This coincided with a small growth spurt and a sudden interest in fist fights. This was where things changed around our house.
My friend, Dan (actually, the guy who got me into music and playing guitar) was over at my house. I don't remember what the arguement was about, but my father and I got into it. It wad been awhile since out last altercation, the adrenaline was something I had been saving for this day. My father grabbed me by the sholders and I dropped him. Two punches, body shots both of them, was all it took. He lay on the floor below me, looking up with a mixture of anger and what I guessed was admiration. His new broken ribs were earned. I left him on the floor there as Dan and I went about our evening.
After that, he never put his hands on me again. In fact, he became a ghost to me for the most part. The last time I talked to my father was in '96, after I had spent $8000 on one of his credit cards (as punishment for him falling off the wagon, again). He called me, said "Hey, buddy. You owe me eight grand.". My response, "Fuck you. Try and collect.". That was the last conversation we had. Amazing, the damage we do.
You know what's turned out to be one of the more interesting things about this whole internet experience (sg.com being my first)? Learning the real names of people I've come to know by these creative aliases. It's thrilling, and makes me wish I had picked a more enigmatic name for myself. Yes, people actually call me Louis T. Hunter out there too. But in my defense, Hunter is the moniker I chose to kill the last of my father and his legacy.
Point/ Counter Point...go
Okay, where was I?
And here I am once again at 3 in the am, struggling to find meaning in my current existence. If I did drugs, now would be the time to do them in excess. Damn my resolve to better my father. Damn him altogether.
Speaking of my father, one of the few things that made this move (what I will probably refer to as "operation: fat camp" in the future) worth it is the chance to reconnect with my mom. We've had many conversations about their divorce and my childhood. I told her this story last night.
The summer before I started junior high my sister and I were shipped to Wheeling, IL to live with my father and stepmom. My moms' alcoholism and inability to deal with us kids was peaking and my father had a new job. So there we landed. Turns out my father was just a little better at hiding his addictions, the move wasn't for the better. Anyway, for the first few years, my dad resorted to a more physical punishment when dealing with me. Hit with a broom stick or kicked down the stairs were par for the course. This all took place under the guise of normal family life. Sometimes it really did feel normal. As I got older, I decided to start lifting wights. This coincided with a small growth spurt and a sudden interest in fist fights. This was where things changed around our house.
My friend, Dan (actually, the guy who got me into music and playing guitar) was over at my house. I don't remember what the arguement was about, but my father and I got into it. It wad been awhile since out last altercation, the adrenaline was something I had been saving for this day. My father grabbed me by the sholders and I dropped him. Two punches, body shots both of them, was all it took. He lay on the floor below me, looking up with a mixture of anger and what I guessed was admiration. His new broken ribs were earned. I left him on the floor there as Dan and I went about our evening.
After that, he never put his hands on me again. In fact, he became a ghost to me for the most part. The last time I talked to my father was in '96, after I had spent $8000 on one of his credit cards (as punishment for him falling off the wagon, again). He called me, said "Hey, buddy. You owe me eight grand.". My response, "Fuck you. Try and collect.". That was the last conversation we had. Amazing, the damage we do.
You know what's turned out to be one of the more interesting things about this whole internet experience (sg.com being my first)? Learning the real names of people I've come to know by these creative aliases. It's thrilling, and makes me wish I had picked a more enigmatic name for myself. Yes, people actually call me Louis T. Hunter out there too. But in my defense, Hunter is the moniker I chose to kill the last of my father and his legacy.
Point/ Counter Point...go
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