Monday, December 13, 2010

the piece-of-shit gene

Not having signed into m*space in a while, I signed in and saw I had a moldy message in my inbox from my late step-dad's oldest son. His message read: I can't believe you deleted me.

I can, I'd only met that guy about five times in 15 years. When the step-dad died of a botched gastric bypass operation, everyone showed up either being his sister or parents, or his children with their grubby hands out itching for an inheritance. Especially his children from his first marriage, the children who hadn't called or been called by their dad for years.

Apparently, the favorite sport of assholes is the grudge match/silent treatment, versus all the out bitching match about who's the bigger asshole. But if you ask me, both those games are for ten year-old girls. The future asshole queens of America.

Anyway, my step-dad left no one a cent, aside from his youngest son from his second marriage, and a little to my mom. So guess what his grubby, itchy-handed first children did? They showed up at my mom's house and looted all the stuff that belonged to the guy. Antique furniture, stereo equipment, neckties, they tried to take everything they could, things that belonged to my mother, things that my mother wanted to keep. They called her mom, tried to take his car, his motorcycle, but he still owed money on those things: fat guy died with a lot of debt.

The bank eventually repo'd all the toys he'd made small high-interest payments on. He was shitty with money. It's no wonder why my mom insisted on separate bank accounts. In the end, it was all bad anyway. He was too morbidly obese to fly or sit in movie seats, eating gallons of ice cream dumped into giant mixing bowls, and she was sleeping on the couch every night, working herself to death just to avoid him. I never went there. I'd hated him long before she did, for polluting my life with a perv, wanna-be dad, who wasn't even good to his own kids.

I understand when kids don't want to talk to their father, but a father shouldn't try to win that grudge match. If a father makes a child with good intentions, that father has a responsibility to be the better man in any situation. In this case, "If they don't wanna talk to me, then I don't wanna talk to them either," was a pussy bullshit cop-out. My dad did the same thing to me, so it hits something raw; he stopped calling me when I was 12. But I can't blame his wife for wanting to erase the past.

When I found out from an estranged relative's email that he'd died of cancer, I was pissed-off. I had to tell my mom, too, who yelled at me for not making amends before it happened. All I could say to calm her down was: he didn't want me, mom. He never called. She didn't want to listen because he was her first love. But you didn't see me with my hands out for a used car, or entertainment system or his collection of Green Bay Packers memorabilia. I figured all that stuff was his wife's. Poor lady.

Neither, him or my step-dad left me with a cent or sentiment. And I have nothing to remember either one of them by. Except this problem with trusting men, and a fear of abandonment that fills me with instant rage when someone walks too far ahead of me, the incessant need to be loved to feel self-worth, this co-dependence I try to deny every time I'm alone...

I can't believe you deleted me is what he said, but I'm sure it runs in my blood. I can't believe you looted my mother's house right after she just lost her husband is how I felt. It's funny, the piece-of-shit gene. And its heightened sense of entitlement through extremes of poverty and wealth. It's all very funny.         

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