When my father scowls and asks if I am still drinking that filthy Coca-Cola, I have to remember that he is doing it because he loves and cares for me.

You know, like “The only reason he is hitting me is because he loves me.”

I had to help him edit the abstract for his new paper.  I wanted to discuss it and ask questions to get to meaning, to understanding. He wanted to defend it and belittle anyone who didn’t understand what was so plain to him.

I was hot and heard myself say “Stop hitting me!” when all he was doing was lobbing defensive grenades of words at me.   That must have been how it felt.

Eventually we got it clean and understandable and agreed on.  Soon he will fuck it up again and the process will continue — the whole paper needs to be edited.

Black and blue.

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Isn’t it ironic that my family doesn’t really want me sullying their surname, so I hide, while my brother feels entitled to hand it out to a kid who fills his wife’s need to have childrent to control?

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You know, every damn love story I see on TV is about someone who needs to realize that who they love is right in front of them, and they just need to open to love.

How come, then, it’s so hard for people to figure out that often what we love is right in front of us and we resist opening to that?

Love is love, Eros is Eros, and as long as we can stay fixated on loving someone else rather than loving the power that God put in our heart, we can always imagine that Mr. Right is just a heartbeat away.

But when we have to know tha it’s what we deny in our heartbeat, what we deny in the heartbeat of people we love, well. . .

It’ll just be a silly movie.

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