. . . 3rd Sunday in June. . .it’s national drunk-driving into telephone poles day . . .

In celebration of Fathers Day – or, as I like to call it – “Drive into a telephone pole and kill yourself” day – I consider being a Daddy to a MUCH YOUNGER man – New York Magazine says it is ON TREND – shit, finally the world catches up with me and I’m too nicotine deprived to actually FUNCTION…read on.

Sunday again…

Since last Sunday, the 2nd Sunday in June, the day I quit smoking, I have not written ONE DECENT SENTENCE.

When I decided to quit, I worried about gaining weight. I haven’t. But I haven’t LOST any either.

I also worried that I would become unbearably grouchy. I’m not. I have it on good authority. I am, however, prone to …

…dissolve, much like the Wicked Witch when doused by the teen bitch in the jeweled slippers. When I feel it coming on, I disappear into the Batcave.

I can’t write…don’t ask me…

What I did NOT consider was the possibility I might not be able to write. My brain in just not engaged in the way it was before. Whatever neural, synaptic paths my thinking and creativity once followed, were clearly lubricated by nicotine.

I need this to pass. I am sure it will. In the meantime, I am still TRYING to write. Satan knows there was plenty about which to write this week; children I know graduating from high school, doing their final dance recitals, doing dance recitals period, and too, a girl I knew when she was in diapers now engaged to be married. And then there’s the whole TEEN WOLF thing – this week’s episode clearly being about Derek and Stiles fist-fucking proclivities. And last night, this was the puzzle on the WHEEL OF FORTUNE re-run:

wheel oz reference

Yes. I know. Right? Some evil queen is still laughing that he snuck that one through.

So, things have happened. But, somehow, putting them together into a coherent narrative is beyond me.

Fathers Day . . . fuck that shit . . . or call me “DADDY”…

And today is another holiday for which I’ve no use and to which I’ve little attachment: Fathers Day. Oh, I had a father. But he died when I was seventeen months old, so, I remember nothing about him.Well, I know he got drunk a lot and drove into a telephone pole: Happy Fathers Day.

Oh look, I’ve been drunk too – although NOT while driving. So, it is vaguely possible that I could be – unbeknownst to me and due to some drugged and desperate experimentation in my misspent youth – a father, I don’t think I am, and I don’t intend to become one in the future. Well, unless, you know, it means dating someone who is thirty years younger than me which NEW YORK magazine says is a distinct possibility (I have no-one in mind, applications being accepted) –


apparently being a “DADDY” is all the rage in the gay community now – so, BRING IT THE FUCK ON. Finally, I’m in a desirable category.

Anyway. Can’t write anymore. Not that this was actual “writing” anyway. I gotta go. The gym calls. Daddy needs a sauna.

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