Wednesday, April 23, 2003
at 5:23 PMIf You Take Cranberries...
Today I turned eighteen, which makes me an adult in the eyes of Texas law (they are some mighty scary eyes, boy, I tell you what) but just another minor in the eyes of Missouri law (which are probably spaced close together).
The Father, as expected, gifted me with nothing to commemorate my birth, opting instead to take me out this weekend to buy something. He makes every holiday so dadgum arbitrary, the stinky-puss grouchy-faced man. I even helped out a little, telling him explicitly what I wanted, but did I come down the stairs this morning to find a special gift lovingly wrapped and awaiting my discovery? Oh, no. That would have been an expression of love and affection, two emotions The Father ruthlessly suppresses.
Well, at least April, if no one else, loves me. She purchased me a copy of Groucho And Me (one of Groucho Marx's autobiographies) and two stamps issued by "the Government of Abkhazia" depicting Groucho Marx and John Lennon (Marx and Lenin, har-har). She also baked two carrot cake cupcakes (with raisins inside them), which I consumed this morning for breakfast.
Sigh... I would consider writing "It's all downhill from here", but that isn't true at all. It's all been downhill from Day One, Dies Unus, Uchi Yoobi, Tag Eins. Anyhow, rather than end this post on a pessimistic note, I shall instead conclude with the first paragraph of Groucho And Me:The trouble with writing a book about yourself is that you can't fool around. If you write about someone else, you can stretch the truth from here to Finland. If you write about yourself, the slightest deviation makes you realize instantly that there may be honor among thieves, but you are just a dirty liar.
