Oops, I Did It Again

Oh, shit, he's pissed. I'm fucked. Again.

My, how time flies when you fail to show up for your father's birthday.


Given last year's non-appearance, that's twice in a row for me.


Three strikes, and uh...I'm...what? Disowned? Disinherited? Disemboweled?

Dad : "I CAST YOU OUT!!!!!!"

Me : "Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu-----!!!!!"

It's not like I'm missing his birthday on purpose. Neither is it due to daddy issues, the existence of which I won't be disingenuous enough to deny. It's just that the Hulk bulk of my work very inconveniently barrels right through my co-creator's natal day : an unstoppable force that has managed to get the best of the immovable object that is my dad's birthday for two years running now. 

"Enough is enough! I have had it with these motherfucking bills for this motherfucking car!!!"

This year, though, I don't have Bangkok to blame, although it was close; I'd just planed in the night before, in the Nick Fury of time to actually be in town to text my old man a happy birthday first thing the next morning. I dutifully did so, and he responded by nagging me whether I'd already made a decision as to which casa was going to have its turn bleeding me dry because my bitch of a car is throwing a Claudine Barreto-esque tantrum once again.




I should've known it would be the start of what would turn out to be a horrifically stressful day.

"Bitchwhyareyoursupportdocumentsincompletegodfuckingdammityou'rewastingmyfuckingtime

YES I HAVE BREATHTAKING ANGER MANAGEMENT ISSUES YOU GOT A PROBLEM WITH THAT?!??!"

While picking out which wall to smash my fist against in the middle of said horrifically stressful day, I received a text from my brother asking what time I'd be home from work, deftly segueing into a reminder that it was Dad's birthday, lest I had forgotten. My mutant godlike powers indicated to me that within that seemingly-innocuous text was a coded message that the Avengers were supposed to assemble at the old HQ that evening and "surprise" dear old Dad.


Too bad for li'l bro, our sister The Scarlet Witch Not-Quite-Black-Actually-Quite-Fair-And-Not-Quite-A-Widow had already given me the heads-up a couple of days earlier - not out of the goodness of her scheming heart, but because she was broke and wanted the rest of us to pony up for that La-Z-Boy Dad had always hankered for.

"Thank you for your cooperation."

(Strangely enough, I had just inspected La-Z-Boy prices at Blim's the week before - oh, just in the neighborhood of P100,000 ++, in case you were interested - remembering that Dad had made noises about wanting one while at the same time completely forgetting that his birthday was coming up. Strange how the addled mind works, there.)

"Brother - SHUT THE FUCK UP!"

Anyway, I fired off a curt text to mi hermano basically telling him to cease-and-desist-the-fucking-cows-are-gonna-be-home-eons-before-I-would-be-and-by-the-way-goddammit-Loki-where-is-the-fucking-Tesseract?!?!?! His meek "Ok" signaled that my point had gotten through like an Asgardian staff through a  certain S.H.I.E.L.D. agent's chest (oooh, spoiler, my bad).

"Oh, sure. I'M the villain here!"

I thought that was the end of that but of course, like any Marvel blockbuster event, there is always a bonus at the end of the interminable credits. At the end of my interminable SAW:XXMCCLVII movie of a day, the scene that played out for me was not one of a gaggle of bored superheroes eating shawarma, but rather a notice that thanks to my absence tonight, I am once again Odin's prodigal son. And a litany of my liege's displeasures  were hammered home courtesy of my sadistic sister ( feeling like Amara the Enchantress, no doubt, or Eris, always looking forward to discord ) : I don't appreciate what he does for me (I do, Dad, but that garage extension was hideous and I had no choice but to tear it down like that hick town in Thor). He's spent a fortune coming to my house in the service of servicing my cars (then why oh why am I always presented with the bills?). I don't listen to what he says ( I do, I just reserve the right as an upright adult to make my own decisions).


And so on.




Sigh.

"Boy, let me tell you about MY daddy issues!"

I suppose it was some sort of advance blessing warning that I had been discussing dear old dad with a colleague from work days before, only to discover that no, I was not alone in this eternal struggle. He, too, loves his father, but is also driven up the wall, if not straight into the welcoming arms of madness itself. I guess when we're finally grown up the balance of power shifts ever so; dad's word is no longer God's. 




In fact, Dad ceases to be God.




His clay feet have been laid too bare, and, like Zeus in the wretched excuse for a movie that was Wrath of The Paying Moviegoers Titans, his thunderbolt-hurling days have passed. Instead, he now spends his days watching his powers wane, dreading the day he eventually crumbles like a weathered living statue because his once-fearful children have lost their fear, along with their faith.

"Have you ever had someone take you out of yourself and then have them stuff something else in?" 

No, I didn't think so. Thanks, I'm gonna resume falling now.

I love my father dearly even though yes, he drives me battier than Bruce "Parental Issues" Wayne. And yes, I should prioritize family over work and I should know the more important things in life and I should make time for my loved ones and by the way, thanks for your mental lecture you nodding self-righteous weasels and by the way, fuck you. Fuck you very very much.

"Fine! I never said I was Captain America!"

*Sigh*

"Does this fucking throne come in gold? My father, Odin, ruler of all Asgard doth demand it."

How much was that fucking La-Z-Boy again?