My Dad
in the course of casual conversation a few weeks ago my Father told me that he came down with prostatitis.
prostatitis, in case you didn't know [and why would you,] is an inflammation of the prostate.
according to the WebMD, Prostatitis is classified as a kind of venereal disease.
though unlike other, more popular kinds of V.D., the infection is bacterial, not viral.
my Father did not get his Prostatitis V.D. from carrying on with whores [i assume] but from sticking his penis in my Mother's filthy asshole.
my Father did not tell me this, this is conjecture.
several Thanksgivings ago, when visiting my Parents' house, the PSE and i found a note my Father had written to my Mother that mentioned, among many other interesting, shocking things, that he loves having anal sex with her.
the same note later complained that he got infections from the practice and had to get on Cipro, twice.
i don't have the slightest idea what the point of the letter was.
it was part smut, part complaint, part love letter and part free-form rambling concern for his impending infirmity.
my Father knew i found his embarrassing letter, and i knew he knew i found his embarrassing letter, but we pretend that i didn't, because it saves us all some indignity.
but not that much.
as now my Father was happy to carry on and on about his sexually-transmitted infections.

my Father's venereal disease caused him intense, burning pain every time he urinated.
after a few days he went to his urologist and the doctor put his finger up my Father's ass to feel his prostate and my Father “ejaculated puss...”
this is the story my Father wanted to share with me.
this is the kind of person my Father is.
anyways, the urologist gave him another dose of Cipro and sent him on his way and several days later his dick is back to normal.

a few weeks after our conversation about how he ejaculated puss when his urologist poked him in the prostate, my Dad had another horrible anecdote to drop in my lap.
apparently my Father is now incontinent.
or at least in the neighborhood of incontinent. incontinent-adjacent.
my Father doesn't really drink water. he doesn't really drink anything, really.
my Father is the driest person i know.
i once told him that i was trying to drink more water and he told me “oh! you've got to be careful with that stuff...”
what the fuck are you talking about, Pop!?!
anyways, recently one of his doctors prescribed my Father some kind of medication that has to be taken with eight ounces of water and this has been playing hell with the barren desert of my Father's biology.
my Father will drink his eight ounces of water and get the pees for the rest of the afternoon.
this is fine most of the time because my Dad hasn't really left the house since he retired thirteen years ago except to go do the grocery shopping or visit one of his doctors, but, on the occasions where he has to be away from his bathroom for more then forty-five minutes, he's begun to have difficulties.
my Father took a walk around the neighborhood with my Mother one day last week and the pees came on so quickly he pissed himself.
when my Father told me that i instinctively laughed out loud because it's a funny thing to say, but, jesus christ, that's not funny at all, that's really, really sad.
when my Parents go on a walk around the neighborhood, i know exactly where they go. they've been taking the same route for decades and are never more then, ten minutes away from the house at any point.
you couldn't hold it for ten minutes!?!
my Father followed that up by saying that on occasions where he has to trek into Manhattan to visit one of his specialists he'll “strap on a Depends.”
my Father has taken to wearing diapers.
this is a turning-point in my Father's relationship with dignity.

my Father is seventy-five. he'll be seventy-six in May.
i don't know how long he will live, but, however long it will be, it will only get messier from here.
and at some point, sooner, perhaps, rather then later, i will inherit that mess.
that's a frightening thing to have to confront.

i do appreciate how shameless my Father is.
the old codger has absolutely no self consciousness when discussing things that really, really ought to embarrass a normal person.
i take after him in that way.
shame is pointless.

some time a few weeks ago, while i was working on a big project for Law School i missed two phone calls and two text messages from my old high school friend Daniels.
all four said the same thing “Titty, for once in my life i NEED your advice your help, and your experience. please answer, man...”
this was uncharacteristic for my old friend who, as far as i can recall, has never left me a message in all the times i've let his calls go to voicemail.
i really should have called him back, but, the paper i was working on was really important and i didn't have time to go down a rabbit hole with whatever crazy shit Daniels has gotten himself into.
odds are seven out of a hundred that he murdered somebody.
his mom, maybe, or his old high school girlfriend that he talks about way too much.

The Gibbler
the PSE's old [and only] friend the Gibbler has been talking to the PSE a lot more on the Face Book Messenger.
the other day the Gibbler mentioned, in passing, that she took a test on the internet that says she has a predisposition to telekinesis.
the PSE tried to push back on that, “no! no you do not!” but the Gibbler is so far gone that the PSE couldn't make her see why that's horseshit.
the Gibbler is always saying some dumb shit that the PSE then has to go through and try to debunk.
the biggest crock of shit the Gibbler was talking was that, if given the opportunity to go back in time and change some of her life decisions she wouldn't take it.
motherfucker, you have a child with learning disabilities, an abusive, philandering husband and no money.
if you wouldn't hop into a time machine to set things straight, you're a fucking retard.
the PSE gave the Gibbler a softball, “what about smoking, you wouldn't go back in time and stop yourself from taking up cigarettes!?!”
who the hell wouldn't take that mulligan if they could?
but the Gibbler said that every mistake makes her stronger, every good has some darkness in it, and the PSE told her she was a fucking idiot.
the Gibbler will get all defensive and the PSE will get exasperated and that's how every conversation they have goes.
i don't know why the PSE bothers, but, i guess, she's got to do something to pass her days and talking to an idiot is as good a way as any.

The PSE's Deadbeat Dad
the PSE talked to her Deadbeat Dad the other day.
he talked for a while about the troubles he's been having with his old lady, which, is a lot of what the PSE's Deadbeat Dad has had to say since shacking up with this crazy woman two or three years ago.
anyways, the other day he ended up slapping the woman.
the PSE's Deadbeat Dad isn't abusive, he's a lot of things, but he isn't abusive, but, apparently this lady was having such a hysterical fit, he didn't see any other choice but to crack her a good one across her face.
the PSE laughed out loud when he told her that.

//[ab irato ad astra]

September 2017

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