Goddamn this drizzle

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Goddamn this pity party, March 11, the birthday of my father. I just thought of phoning my mother to ask her to confirm his age in the name of adding another sentence. I doubt she’d appreciate it. I guess knowing he’s still about is what irritates her most, that living reminder of all those betrayed dreams. I can’t say for sure. Told him he’s an insult to himself yesterday. The only grip he’s had on life for the past fifteen years was to hold a bottle of beer upright. It seems to be the sole purpose of his existence. I refuse to accept that. I despise the fact that he doesn’t give a toss. For the sake of repetition to frustrate but also create a subtle sense of habituality (a possible Add to Dictionary): told him he’s an insult to himself yesterday. That was before my brother came with his heavy tiding. Goddamn this drizzle. Now I’m stuck indoors. I’d best avoid him if possible. If possible he’ll remain in his lodge the entire day. I suppose this disgust is mutual at present.

My mother-in-law told me to honour him, honour him regardless? I asked my wife to point out some honourable things he’s done recently. Does helping others on occasion purely to sustain a never-ending binge count for anything? I have no father. I had one once. Now I’m stuck with a drunk that resembles the man I used to admire.

And then his car starts. I can hear him revving it in the distance now. 9:25 AM. On his way, where? Guess! Fancy a wager? The liquor store perhaps … it’s a celebration after all.

I still want a father but it is not a necessity at this stage. At least the one I had stuck around for a few acts, long enough to see me devouring his heart. I’ve been brushing up on my Fugard (a definite Add to Dictionary) lately. It shows when recognizing your own Valley Road, that convenient rut.

Fifth draft (alcohol free): Hidden clause//This one passing through/ this huddle of penguins and/ other opportune ostriches/ like a flock of flip-floppers/ unburdened by their clatter of bills/ their glib liberations/ always a feather from fledged/ this latest rule of dodos/ I choose to soar

I also got the newspaper yesterday. It included a DVD of Fiela se kind. And there he was forever after just two tusks that would magically rectify it all. Enchanted forest my arse! Also noticed the Grootvoete ultimately finished off his namesake. I prefer to approach life as less of a gamble and much more of a calculated risk.

Goddamn this Highveld of sunken shafts. The earth should swallow us whole, every last gold-digger, this entire society of self-centred sacks of bone! Goddamn this letter and the author of it with his desperate need to get to six hundred words as if there’s some merit in spilling your guts excessively. Who will mop up the mess after your hara-kiri? Goddamn my literary father, that seahorse that bore the wretched writer in me and my English teacher for her encouragement. Goddamn these tears like a faint drizzle, I should be drinking myself to death. Goddamn my psychiatrist and her persistence in rehabilitating me, becoming a koolkop is the way to go. Fuck functionality! I should drag you down like a second shadow and call it even.

10:59 AM. Goddamn me for smoking in the bedroom again and seconds away from getting it myself. In a letter from my own son, he’d probably also conclude: God bless the six hundredth word.

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