I’d started this post about the MEN of Deadliest Catch and how I I’d thought that maybe I could maybe dream about throwing myself up against the marathon mountain that is crab fishing in the Bering Sea and how cool it’d be to be able to be one of them.
And so there I was typing along, living longingly vicariously, when I got (ok, received? I get it, Ms. grammar) an e-mail from my father?
And everything dilated and dehydrated.
I hadn’t and haven’t spoken to the man who calls me son in over twenty years. And I’m good with that. I don’t care. I don’t know who he might be or who he might have become. I just don’t care.
I don’t know how he got my e-mail address and I don’t know if he reads my shit.
But if he does? Listen up motherfucker.
We’re done, we’re over, we’ve been waaaaaay over for a loooooonnnng ass time. Get over it.
The bruises will never go away.