Venting, please stand back.........

These things just pop into my head at the strangest moments. If I'm lucky, or perhaps if I'm not, I am close enough to the Imac to run over and type it down.

I honestly don't know how to do this. I've been winging it for fifty years now, and how I've gotten away with it this long is really beyond my comprehension. I don't have the slightest idea how to be an adult male in America.

Oh, in the early days when I was emancipated from my unwanted youth, I seemed to have a knack for picking directions to head in when there were no signs pointing to anything in particular. Anyone who does not believe that fate has an amazing amount of influence on where one ends up hasn't been out on this empty highway without a map, without the slightest idea how to read one if you did.

I have been particularly drawn to the posts of you guys with genuine fathers, biological or not, who taught you things, whether or not you listened to them at the time. That was their job, and from what I've read, they did that job pretty damn good overall. I know that plenty of men were sired by fathers who were there in the flesh only, so having one does not automatically put you on the fortunate list.

I knew my father only long enough to burn a blurry picture of what he looked like into my soul. Beyond that, I can't remember what he sounded like, or any real conversations we had about anything. If he taught me anything, it was that fathers go away and leave you. That was all he contributed beyond his share of my chromosomes. If he had gone off to war and died, I could forgive him for that. What the bastard did do was let me out on the highway of life, without even showing me how to stick out my thumb. I had to learn how to do that all on my own.

Yes, I did end up in the care of people. Problem was, "care" as they defined it was not starving me to death, not letting my clothes get to ragged before spending the money the welfare people gave them, and making sure they got some good use out of me while they had me. As far as education was concerned, the school was in charge of that. The ancient sonofabitch that was my paternal stand- in had no vested interest whatsoever in teaching me anything about the nuances of life other than to run when he picked up his bullwhip.

Long after I turned 18 and was thus my own problem, I've been shackled by this pathetic not knowing how to take initiative, how to figure out what was expected of me without a full-tilt explanation, and not even knowing how or who to ask for help. I more or less took things as I blundered into them and made the best of it, even when I truly hated being where I was. I knew there was so much more out there, but getting it or even thinking I deserved to was another matter altogether.

I HAVE accomplished things in life, some I have been quite proud of. Some of the things I am proudest of are in reality quite simple, like teaching myself to swim because, being strictly a liability, my owners would not risk my drowning by allowing me into deep water. Their biological offspring, younger than me, were taught, and they quite enjoyed laughing at me in the shallow end. I wish I could get the sound of their mirth out of my psyche; it haunts me to this very day.

Now, I juggle the responsibilities of homeowner, husband, worker, etc, and always seem to barely be able to manage it all. I suffer a continuous guilt for having my wife along for the ride, for I somehow feel she suffers for my ineptitude. Of course, she loves me so dearly for some strange reason that she easily tells me all the time how proud she is of me and how much she needs me. No matter how much I appreciate her love and support, that little bastard, my "inner child", doesn't buy it for a second. If there was some way to excise him altogether, he'd be dead meat in no time. I don't need this. Not now. Not after all this damn time.

I consider myself pretty damn intelligent, despite my upbringing. I fully realize that I may be deluding myself in that assessment, but I cling to it nonetheless. It keeps me warm. As does my rage. Oh, yes, I have SO much rage built up inside, both from what's been done to me and for things that have nothing directly to do with me. When you have no earthly idea why Bob even bothered to put you here in the first place, it wears on you. Now, reading over what I have just typed, I piss myself off. What a fucking whiner! Oh well, damage has been done, big deal. Here I am. I'm standing on the edge of the cliff, staring down at all the awful things awaiting me, and I'm so used to it that it just seems perfectly normal. So, I just smile, flip those monsters down there the bird, and back away from the abyss another quarter step.

So why did I say all this stuff, and even worse, publish it for all the world to see? Pressure relief. Therapy. Howling at the moon. So, I lost my owners manual, big deal. I know where the gas pedal is. I know how the brakes work. I can even manage the turn signals. I figured all those things out on my own. Nobody taught me any of it. I'm doing pretty damn good considering that the only thing about myself that I really know for sure is my model year. I don't really know who made me or what I was made for, but I'm still firing on all cylinders, and I somehow get from point A to point B. And for that, I am blessed.

Venting over. I now return you to things that matter.