It would’ve been my dad’s 71st birthday.
His old best friend Paul reached out to me today to tell me (for the 100th time) “He was my best friend. I loved him very much” but he never asks how me or my brothers are doing. What the fuck?
I wanted to reply “Yeah, I’m glad you ‘hope we’re doing well’, but how about, I dunno, write all of his sons and maybe try to be a part of our lives? If my dad was so fucking important to you, don’t you think you might want to keep the people, that were the closest biological ties to your friend, in your fucking life?”
It’s odd to me, how this guy, who supposedly can’t take a sip of water without mentioning his love for my poor father, can go over 1,000 days and not think to ask my father’s sons how the fuck they’re doing.
Well, I’m kind of having a fucking shit day, Paul. Where the fuck were you when my dad was abusing alcohol and not talking to his kids? I don’t recall you ever saying “I’m so sorry your dad treated his body like shit. I tried to help him turn that shit around.”
Nah. You just sat there and watched. Then, when he was dying on that hospital bed, you and your other god damn friends came down, saw him for a few minutes, went out and got shit-faced, and then fucked off back to California. Then you just sat by while his sons grieved and suffered. You fucking idiot.