My dad is the tits. He gives me money, cars, clothes me, feeds my ego, lets me live rent free, and the sight of my tears, I get away with anything. (Hence why I cry so much). While I was home this past winter break, I became accustom to sleeping in till 12 and literally not doing anything for anyone. In effort to get me out of my bed, my dad simply came into my room, threw his credit card on my bed and said “the choice is yours.” You better bet I chose fucking right and drove my ass right to the mall… yet I digress.
As amazing as my dad is, as I round the 25th anniversary of my existence on this cruel world, I realize I have a major bone to pick with him. While I love my dad as much as my twisted little heart could love anything, I hate him. You want to know why? Because my dad is a cold hearted liar. He’s been lying to me for years, and has therefore raised me to expect dudes that will live up to the standards he taught me to have. As I get older, I kind of expected some new dude to pretty much slide right in to the role of nice guy/sugar daddy to give my real daddy a damn break from coddling my emotions and turning me into the extreme narcissist I am today , but it doesn’t look like that will be happening any time this century.For years, my dad has been telling me “you’re beautiful, you’re smart, you’re special.” Etc. fucking etc. What a sicko.
I’m beautiful? I’m pretty sure I pinpointed at least 500 girls prettier than me during freshman year orientation and now they’re all engaged. Dad, either your eyes are broken or everyone else’s are.
I’m smart? While any betch with some money can go to law school, I don’t think its the accurate measure of intelligence. If I were actually smart, I would have taken the money I spent on college and used it on a fully body Heidi Montag special and bought some tits and ass. Its all about increasing the value of your real estate to attract prospective buyers.
I’m special? Lunchables on sale at Shop Rite are special. Unicorns are special. Your lovable next door neighbor with autism is special. If by special you mean getting get dicked over by assholes, nice guys, mean guys, jocks, nerds, bros, and pros alike, then yes, I’m really something else. Even those unicef kids in Africa get more love and attention than I get from the opposite sex. Puppies in the Sarah McLaughlin ads get kinder words and more soft soothing touches than I do. I’m hurting too, dammit! I want to be loved, too DAMMIT!
The only special thing about myself is the miracle that I haven’t leaped off the 100 foot high emotional precipice I have been balancing on for the past couple years as the sole member of the Lonley Hearts Club. As another Valentine’s Day and my 25th year closer to the true death approaches, I am looking for someone to blame for all of my social and emotional inadequacies. So thank you, dear father, for supporting me with your undying love and attention and for ultimately ruining my life.
One may be the loneliest number, but 25 may be the most fucking depressing. Happy bday to me.