hi world, you can fuck off now,

 

 

my father approves of my website. what this means: you're gonna get it, you're gonna get it, gonna take a gold plated silver bullet this time, ha ha, he's on my side, you think i have opinions, you think i run my mouth, wait til you hear what richard shakespeare has to say, 1964 ok, he's on jury woman shot husband dead for wreckin her, eleven good people say hang her, guess who turns jury around, yup, my junkie throwaway dad, shakespeare's cyst.

he's actin like me now, all over mpls/st.paul promoting trouble, we can meet him halfway, yup, yay, he's on the way, let's just hope he can write.

ok, time to make important decision:

i'm cutting down on dads, period.

i now and forever have two fathers, just like normal families.

44 years old, this is hardest decision of my life, gordon leo plan, no longer bestdad. no answered letters since Ricky's funeral, and that's why, huh Gordy, i betrayed you by sitting next to my real dad (who paid my airfare, gave me place to sleep, food, money, love) and gordy fell apart in convulsive sobbing all alone in church and i was w/my other family but i'm sorry does anyone remember who the daughter gets to be?

we know how this is gonna end, right? deathbed reconciliation, aka rich literary material, these numbers are the shit, oprah, i did them before, am gearing up for the one that comes next (unless mine of course).

gordy is only dad i know, and he protected me from pschorella and ricky alot when i was a kid, so will always be loyal loving daughter, but can't call him bestdad no more, feels wrong now, see?

so from now on we have realdad, or DAD for short, and "close-but-no-cigar-dad", or "i'm sorry i'm sorry i'm sorry princess, but i had lots of problems of my own too ya know dad." As in ku klux klan? No shit cigar, how you comin along with those "problems" dad? (webaster: can this man sue me? Has he?)

 

so, meet trouble's family:

they stole my brother's gravestone a week after his funeral, this is the one i was late for b/c i "had" to buy a taco at the airport, and whoops, don't tell me that's my airplane up in the sky, get them back i'm ready now.

call real dad, er, dad, missed my flight, tell the relatives looks like i have no choice but to make a big late entrance in handcuff belt (tribute to big bro) dad calls relatives, well, she's a Rowley, all right. Robin Marie Rowley, that was me too, don't tell the doctors though, they wouldn't understand, is not another wiggy personality, just come from a long, long line of drunks, murderers, soul-doctor Irish show-biz people is all.

oh dad, first thing happens between us: trouble learns to play the drums. all i ever wanted to do was play drums, grow up, Ludwigs always in middle of living room floor, boys get to bang on them all hours, but mom won't let me near them b/c they were unfeminine. does this sound right?!

ok, meet trouble's dad. webaster, i have a few poems about him on some other internet places whatever, bullshit mental health would-you-like-an-open-or-closed-coffin websites, could you find them, take them off and put the links here where they belong, thanks, oh first, make sure they're you know, appropriate.

here's a photo of my dad, guess which one he is, no, come on, take a guess, tell me this aint a movie, doctor mundanes, i am now the internet, mirror, editor and plot director, litmus test (???????) and no more tears on my pillow, no more 50 father complexes rolled into one webaster, no more pointless and useless nostalgia, no more falling stars at troublewaits. yay.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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