Fathers haven’t really worked out for me. My actual one was divorced from my mother when I was very young, and has never been anybody but the guy I had to visit sometimes as a child. I’ve always called him “Paul,” never “Dad”, and his greatest contribution to my life is probably producing the half-brother who would eventually fuck me over and contribute to my overall cynicism in regards to family, love, and fidelity. I don’t talk to him, because quite honestly we have nothing to talk about. I possess no photos of him and wouldn’t even know how to go about getting any.
My stepfather (Mark I) was an infantile motherfucker who cheated on my mother serially. He was ignorant, emotionally abusive, selfish, and far and away the most reprehensible human being I’ve ever been unfortunate to live with. I have dim yet undeniable memories of SOMEBODY sexually abusing me in my wee youth, and though I will never have enough evidence to support a conclusive accusation, ask yourself who would have had 24-hour access to little me. Regardless, it was no fucking picnic being a child in this man’s household.
My current stepfather is a good guy. He’s nice to my mother. I like him a lot, though I will never feel comfortable calling him “dad”. My mother insists that I call him on Father’s Day, and it always feels weird. Like, really weird. Shouldn’t I be the one with the say in who I choose to wish a Happy Father’s Day to?
So, in honor of the day, I’m just going to post a picture of GHOST DAD, ‘cause, you know, fuck it.
