My writing is careless at best. I rarely proofread or plan. Usually, I spit some shit out on the page and hope for the best. I wish I could say it's some artistic choice to show the frailty and imperfections of existence, but it's really that I lack discipline. I guess it's a bit like fucking. Give it all the hell you have in the moment of inspiration, but you know you could have done so many things better if the goal was perfection rather than getting lost in the moment. I guess that means a typo is like knocking on the wrong door. Just laugh at yourself and keep at it and embrace the joys of imperfection. As long as the closing sums up intention the reader is left satisfied. So my shits unrefined as hell, but I like to think there's a certain beauty and innocence flowing within my awkward wordings and forced lines or conclusions. When inspiration hits, just spit it out and move on. Wait for the next time a moment cracks you open enough you feel it's worthy of sharing. Repeat. So ya, a lot like fucking.

Baseball?

No, football.

No, his arms, oh God, look at his arms... Back to baseball.

She knew he had to have played a sport. Didn't know what kind of sport but she sure wanted to find that out. That and so many other things about him. All the things.

She was studying the way his shirt was straining over different areas of his back and biceps. She was in a position to sneakily study him today. Bliss.

Stop being such a freaking creeper she admonished herself. But to no avail. The delicious inspection would continue.

Here at work, she was not the only one noticing him either. Whenever he walked by, flocks of females stupidly stuck out their tits toward him, sticking out their asses, preening like complete jackasses. All types: fat, skinny, pretty, dog-faced, it didn't matter. They all tried. Their shrill voices cawing out a greeting to him followed by silly, asinine giggles. They were all so desperate to catch his eye. She felt a hefty portion of second-hand embarrassment each time it happened.

Look at these idiot women...

She, on the other hand, remained cool and reserved. She pretended not to see him, pretended to be too absorbed in whatever task be at hand. Inside though, she was going crazy. He was creating a tempest within her in which she joyfully reveled.

She wanted to find a way to hold her body against his. The thought of how her calves would feel draped over his glorious shoulders gave her a shiver.

Sigh.

The lyrics to "Creep" came to mind. She winced.

Yeah, I'll own that. Fair enough.

She supposed that in the end, she was no better than the horny flock. She was just better at hiding it.

When I was 3, I was dropped off at a day care that did not care about the kids just so my dad can go gamble. My brother almost died at that stupid day care.

When I was 5 and starting school, I had to walk to and from school with my other young siblings in rain, snow, strong wind, or heatwave because no one cared enough to drive us.

When I was 6, my dad threw me into the deep end of the pool and told me if I wanted to live I'd learn how to swim and then he walked away. Thankfully, I learned to doggy paddle.

Ages 7 through 10, I watched my dad and mom fight almost daily. Yes it was loud. Yes it got physical. Yes he sent my mother to the hospital many times. Yes he took his anger out on us too. As a child, I soaked it all up. I was conditioned into fear and low self worth.

I grew up with screaming, fighting, anger, threats in the middle of the night, cops at our door, and talking to child protective services over and over without anything ever being done. Because, of course, we were conditioned to lie. Did we like living in our situation? No. No kid, no person, ever would. But, did we want to be split up from our siblings? Also no. So we lied and lived in the negativity and constant danger.

When I was 11, my dad crossed a line. He almost killed my mother in front of us all and he knew he messed up and ran. And so did we. In the coming week, we packed as much as a gym bag or two would let us and left him, heading to a different state entirely and losing everything.

When I was going through middle school, ages 11-13, my dad hired a private investigator to try to find us. He threatened to find us and kill us all for leaving him. Before he was able to find us, he was sent to jail for a few years. I didn't hear from my dad after that for a while. Constantly throughout high school I would imagine that he was either dead or very close to finding us. I would be afraid that he would burst through the door of one of my classrooms and grab me.

A couple months before I graduated, he reached out and tried to have a serious relationship with me and my siblings. He wanted to say sorry and get to know us and how we grew up. We rejected him.

On the day I graduated from high school, as I was celebrating getting my diploma with my family after the ceremony, I got news that he passed away. I didn't feel sad. Or happy. I just felt numb to it. My life would have been the same if I heard the news or didn't. The only reason I remember the damn anniversary of his death is because it landed on the same day as my graduation. He made me numb and insecure. Those were the gifts my dad left me. That and bad genetics. My anger comes from him and it took me years and years to learn to control it. Especially as a young child. But eventually, I did. Thankfully.

Every now and then, I wonder what would have happened if I reached out to him and let him apologize and have a relationship with me. Even if for a few months. I wonder what he would have said.

I can assume what a father should be like towards his daughter: loving, kind, caring, supportive, protective. He should show her how a man should treat her. I don't know how any of that feels. My dad would have thrown me to a pack of wolves and never looked back. Protect me? He'd kill me to save himself without a second thought.

Over the past year and a half, I've tried to learn how to love. How to care. But I can't. I'm still numb. I see a man laughing with his young daughter and giving her piggy back rides or buying her ice cream or random toys and gifts and all I can remember is how I wasn't allowed to buy the things I wanted because my dad would rather gamble the money away than buy me a doll.

What's it like to laugh with your dad? To have inside jokes with him? To be able to talk to him? Share with him? What was he supposed to do? What was his role? Was he supposed to help me figure out boys? Or life? Was he supposed to push me to better myself? To try new things? What? I don't fucking know. And I never will. I'm not going to have some father figure to thank and buy a present for or give a card to or bake a cake for. While other fathers will be given cards and love, I will be...coasting through the day numbly. Always so damn numb. Probably won't even know it's fathers day until I see some ad or something to remind me. Thanks dad. And happy fathers day from your still broken daughter.