Dead in a Box Rotting….

I have to make phone calls tomorrow to get my site back online. There’s a side-thought. It’s annoying to me. And this whole “new site” situation has been a big F’ ing headache and hassel for so many reasons; it doesn’t help that I can’t focus.

Or this keyboard on this phone doesnt add in the puncuation and capitalization that my old Iphone did.

So awesome.

I also just talked to my mother and found out that my real father is dead.

Last February sometime, I guess.

I’d never met him…and truthfully I really don’t think I give one shit.

Who was the shittier father? My biological, or my step?

That’s rhetorical, as the day is long.

I was told by my step-father; when I confronted him at 19 yrs. old; that “he did the best he could; with what he had to work with.”

Yeah…..try not knowing your piece of shit father isn’t your real father; and your REAL father is a life-time felon, rapist and murderer; piece of shit.

You’d never begin to know what that feels like.

My whole family knew. I didn’t.

I had to figure it out myself.

I had ZERO to work with from you or anyone. My whole life.

And you were a shitty father; and still are to me. Always have been.

You never once apologized for any of it; either of you. None of it. None of the shit you did to my mother or sisters either.

So yeah; who really gives one shit about either of you.

And your shams of a life.

You never did about me.

I was YOUR child.

People wonder why my life has been fucked up.

Fuck you both.

I’m not bitter; I’m right.

You are both dead to me.

J.Rounds ©2018~Peaces of ME

Free writing memory.

When I was small, my father had a few muscle cars and we lived in the house in Portage.

There was a field across from our house and my dog used to run in that field, unleashed and probably uncollared too although I can’t remember.

The street that I can recall was busy but not constantly.

This night my dog ran into the road and a car hit it. It was laying there and my father ran out into the middle of the road and started freaking out.

For the life or me I can’t remember the name of the dog. I think Arthur. 

I remember my mother putting me in the front seat of the Roadrunner, and my dog lay on the back seat bleeding. We rushed to the vet.

Something in me before my dog even got hit, told me he would get hit long before he did. I used to watch my father yell at him to stay away from the road, why I stay on the stoop outside waiting for my mom or playing. I knew that and I was only four years old. Kids are intuitive.

The thing that scared me that night was not my dog on the back seat bleeding; but seeing my father crying in the front.

My dog died.

And I would never see my father cry that way again.

I know I felt bad; but I also knew we’d get another dog eventually.

I think my father was mad at himself.

My father is actually my step- father. Not to confuse the two.

J.Rounds (c)2016 ~Peaces of ME

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