I Blame My Parents
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Boy, it has sure been a while.
After a few months of life-shortening heavy drinking and taco-eating, I've decided to forgive my father for his past sins. Time certainly hasn't healed all of my wounds, as some self-righteous dick-wad once proclaimed it would many years ago; I've just decided that my Old Man's commiting enough "sins of the present" that the old ones are worth ignoring now.
Currently, my time's at a premium, there's a grizzly bear rooting around in my youngest daughter's bed-cage, but hopefully I'll be able to keep my loyal followers updated on my mental state and my father's latest hijinx.
Bye for now!
Thatcher "Taco Whore" Green
I feel like I've jumped ahead a little bit. I pounced on this whole "feel sorry for becasue my dad's mean and bad" story and you don't even know me. I will, therefore, take this oppourtunity to introduce myself and tell the story of my background.
Hi, my name's Thatcher Green, son of Cooper Green. I was, indeed, named for my dad's favourite political figure, Margaret Thatcher. I grew up in what is widely known as "The Land of the Pig Farm, " Port Coquitlam, B.C. If you can avert your eyes from the dead hookers and Dodge Ram driving hicks, it's sort of a picturesque place. I went to a boarding school for "short-bus kids", as my dad put it, until grade seven. After grade seven my dad pulled me and my two brothers out of school to become organ grinders and monkey trainers. He read a story about it in the National Enquirer and saw a gold-mine. We worked together as a family training and grinding for about two years. Times were tough, the market was fading. Dad started spiraling steadily down into the abyss known as "midget porn" in order to deal with his stress. We wouldn't see him for days at a time. The only proof we had that he still existed was the occasional ticket-stub from the cirus found lying around. We, my borthers and I, took his frequent absence as the perfect opportunity to sell our one remaining spider-monkey, Chet, and re-enroll ourselves in public school.
My past experiences didn't do a lot of good for my social skills. It was immediately apparent to myself, other students, teachers, parents, janitors, cafeteria staff, et cetera, that I wasn't fitting in very well. I adopted a life of crime, as they say. A lot my free time was spent vandalising property and people, and impregnating the neighbours. I had a lot of fun.
The fun stopped two years later when Coop (he never liked the "dad" monicher "It's too official... and I don't want to really be that kind of associated with you.") yanked me out of school and enrolled the whole family in a cult. We sold all of our possessions and gave the proceeds, and our souls, to the Church of the Pestilent Clam. That's a blog on it's own, I'm not going to get into the details of cult-life right now. In short, we're not like regular people anymore.
I stayed with the cult until I was 18. That was about a year longer than anyone else in the family wanted to do it, I kind of liked it there. I would have stayed longer but our fearless leader, Father Geoduck, commited suicide in order to purify himself. I never got that. That whole dying to live better thing. It doesn't make sense to me. However, it wasn't up to me, Geoduck did want Geoduck wanted to do. I, in what was called an "irreverant move", uprooted from the cult and became a lumberjack in Central Alberta. I saw a need to rid the world of poplars, don't ask me why but it felt right. That lasted for a week.
I'm now 25 years old and living in Alberta still. My new carreer is occasionally lucrative, if not self-destructive. I'm a professional VLT gambler. I hang out in Boston Pizzas all over Alberta and try to get rich on video terminals. I love to travel.
I've never written a blog before. I'm not sure that I can but I have to try. I've been searching the globe for my lying bastard of a father for a lot of years now. In fact, it feels like it's been my whole life, or at least the relevant, formative parts of it. Through exhaustive searches (both electronic and in-person) I've managed to locate my father on Motime. Understandably, I entered upon this discovery with mixed emotions. For starters, I still don't know *where* he is but at least now I can communicate with him. I've been wanting to tell him about how often he makes me cry. I miss you, daddy.
