And an empty box.
Oh dear God. I wish I could remember it. It was Kashi Cocoa Beach and that's good stuff.
On the emotional front, feeling kind of odd without any family left. Mom's out of the picture, the brother has been off since I was twelve, and my father is always talking about shooting me whenever he gets the slightest bit of irritation, like my saying, "No, dad, mom is not a slut, she's a pentecostal, and she didn't cheat on you. You held a gun to her head and she left because she saw the bullets." Then he threatens to shoot me. Some people say that it's just talk, but not anymore.
Did I ever tell you about my dad? Congestive heart failure, 300 lbs, lives alone in a trailer with a chihuhua in the middle of nowhere Southern Mississippi, has his legs bound twice a week, can't see, has no feeling in his arms or legs for years, and cannot stand more than five minutes from chronic back pain. He's seventy. Until last year, his own mother was out mowing her lawn. She was 89. Same year she shot a coon out of the roof of her chicken coop. And daddy? He won't even let his sisters come clean for him. He lives in filth. All, I think, for food.
I have a friend who's father died of alcoholism. I told him our fathers are no different, mine just isn't dead yet. A broken man, in body, a bit in mind, and lonely, for sure. He says he still looks for my mother in the mornings, and has dreams about her. But why wouldn't he listen? Why would he--after being diagnosed a diabetic eat candybars and ice cream? He would eat a half gallon of Blue Bell every two days. Two days. And now, he sits in his recliner and can't even get up to pee. He uses a gallon jug.
I love my daddy. But I don't want to end up broken like him. No more munchies. I think I'm just going to lay down when I take it. Yeah, it's funny, and its not, isn't it?
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