you know, out of all these things that i want, you know what i want the most? i want you to be disappointed in me. i’d love for you to have any reactionary feelings towards me whatsoever. you’re my fucking father for chrissakes, you lay there in your chair just not giving a shit about anything. everyone’s gone and now it’s just you, alone, in this hellhole of a house. and when i come by to say hello and tell you that my marriage failed and that i’m being checked out by a doctor for a fatty liver brought about by drinking, and that i lost the dream job i’ve always wanted because i can’t even get myself out of bed in the morning, all i want, all i want is for you to be disappointed in me. all i need is for you to say, “son, get your shit together.” all i want is advice or direction. just point in a fucking direction! north, south, east, west, whatever. diagonals even. give me something i can hang my hat on. instead you bit your lip after ted was born and never let go. and that’s fine, now. you keeping your mouth shut gave me the drive i needed to get out of this piece of shit town, to seek answers elsewhere. so thanks for that, i guess. but once my past caught up with me and i just needed some guidance, hell, i may be 46 but i still need guidance, dad–after all that time, you’re still here, watching reruns of frasier on your shitty TV … still biting your lip. never enough to draw blood, yet still gnawing.