Seven

My father boasts. He brags to his “mates” about how much he drinks, what he is currently drinking, about the time he was so drunk, he danced on top of our mulch pile singing “I Am the Champion” while the taxi that dropped him off shone its lights on him. There was an empty wine bottle planted in our mulch the next morning.

My father says stupid things. About food, about supermarkets, about porn, about lesbians.

My father has been in jail (only) once.

He teases us, he points out our imperfections, he yells at us when we don’t wash his dishes or cook his dinner.

My father’s a wanker. He infuriates me. He is such a wanker, that sometimes he falls asleep on the couch when we’re watching House and snores real loud, so we sneak downstairs to watch it. There is hell to pay if we wake him up.

It infuriates me when he shows off in front of my friends. So much when he tells them about stupid things that I do.

My father. Father, father, father. Dad. Father.

“You’re his children, you go home and tell your father that if he can’t afford it, bother someone else!”

My dad makes me so grumpy that sometimes, when he’s tired, and he comes upstairs to see if he can help me with my geography homework, it makes me smile.

My dad annoys me when he calls me stupid names in front of other people, but I feel a funny little grin creep up on my face.

When my dad hands out garlic to random people, telling them to stay out of dark places, it’s so dumb that it makes me laugh until tears run down my face.

My dad loves religion, philosophy, music, art, wine. My dad loves being dumb, blondes, beer, his kids.

When my dad makes fun of me, the corners of his eyes go all crinkly, and he imitates my voice. Even though he sounds nothing like me.

My dad’s a wanker.

I love my dad.

This entry was written on May 24, 2007 by Mandy. It is about/includes mentions of family. You can leave a comment, or trackback from your own site.