He wasn't being a paranoid, overbearing prick for a long time, so maybe he was due. But during dinner tonight he freaked out, and in his own goddamn way, he did it by buttering me up first.
He asked me about finding some software that kept track of his real estate holdings. And then he asked me why I went out and had coffee so many times. "To work on my laptop," I said, and I reminded him about the website I keep writing sports for. My Fucking Father then asked if it was making money. I couldn't lie; no, not yet, Father.
He then launched into his misgivings about working too much when I was young. "The one thing you never get back is time," My Fucking Confucius said. He then said something to the effect of I was wasting my time and I need to find a good job, blah-blah-blah. I don't know what he exactly said because I fucking tuned out as soon as he got on me. But I did talk back to him; I said, "You don't know that," meaning he didn't know whether I was wasting my time. He then fell back to his martyrdom pose: "Yeah, you're right, I don't know."
Listen: I ain't makin' shit on my sportswriting or this blog or any writing I'm doing right now. I have a job that I need to pay for things, and I need that, obviously. But goddamn, I am happy right now. To give all of that up for financial security and completely abandoning writing and going to coffeehouses and writing ... fuck that shit. I'd rather die.
So, once again: Fuck You, Father.
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