Once upon a time I really and truly
hated my Dad. Actually, it was between
1988 and
1992, on and off, when I just couldn't seem to get it together in
higher education, nor
love, nor
career. A few months of halfheartedly
hanging out, no income, no rent, sleeping all day and avoiding family contact as much as possible while
living in my parents' basement...
At first, I suppose, he just wanted to
help me out of the
funk. Obviously, I wasn't
happy. He tried to
engage me with discussion of
relativity and
spacetime and such, but these weren't really relevant to my
existential crisis as I saw it. Besides, my
high-school physics far outstripped his
dumbed-down-for-television understanding of the subjects.
After the failed
quest for
understanding came the
SLAVERY. I was "forced" to dig ditches, paint, and clean basements at his rental properties; I was reduced to doing
paste-up and
couriering the resulting mechanical art to his client. In return, he had
the nerve to pay me and help me get my car running.
But in the months of
SLAVERY, I carefully nursed a
silent rage. Whatever the
conversational gambit, I
minimized my response, and
rejected offers of sharing and time. I hated myself for dropping my
guard long enough to
laugh at a casual joke. -Maybe as much as I hated him.