My father was a broken man, a failure, dead inside, lost. I carry guilt for not estranging him. Add to the indictment how he immediately criticized the art work I had been telling him about, when he finally saw it. I should have drawn a portrait of his terrified wide eyed look and said “how is this for figure drawing, dad, huh??” Or how he fake-laughed for a minute and a half when I told him I didn’t make second call for a comedy group. I should have just hung up and not talked to him for a year. He gave f***-all about anything that interested me. Do you know a broken man? He hated himself so fully that his prissy wine, beer, and cognac did him in. Adios, fucker! And he forcibly tried to get me to hold a pool cue perfect, it was creepily obsessive. What a POS, it pains me to know that people go through life never knowing bliss, even if they aren’t always experiencing it. Thank the Lord I had the wits to know he was broken even as a toddler.