My dad died October 8th. How surreal is that? The last time I talked to him I called because I'd just seen a video of Bob Fosse in The Little Prince and realized Michael Jackson had stolen his moves. So much for any respect I had for him as an innovative dancer. But, I mean, how stupid is that? I always called to tell him stupid things like that. Any problems or more serious thoughts, I called mum because Dad was kind of homophobic and far too republican to understand. Of course that didn't always work out either as Mum is quite religious and I'm ... not. Christianity has too many plot holes and inconsistencies for me to go along with it blindly.
But I do believe in an afterlife. And that helps a little bit. Knowing how many people, loved and admired Dad helps. But everything is getting harder. Going to work and dealing with people. Talking to people. Even my family. Even the Brit. I just can't. I just want to curl up and hide, but I can't do that either. No one seems to want to allow it. They'd all get too worried.
I find myself mad about stupid things. Like the fact that every Youtube video has a political ad before it and it's all anyone can talk about. I just can't make myself care anymore. A client walked up to us yesterday and said, "I just heard beautiful news. Romney's gonna win." And I wanted to respond with, "Fuck Romney. Fuck Obama. Fuck you." No matter which president wins they're not going to bring back Dad. Or invent time travel. They can't even fix the stuff that's *not* impossible. It's all pointless now.
And this eighty-year-old guy yesterday felt the need to tell us about how his doctor gave him a clean bill of health and he'll probably live to be one hundred. Why is that fair? Why does he get to live when Dad's gone? That's such bullshit. And the guy is a complete dick and a letch. How is that fair?
I guess this is probably the anger stage of grief? But I think I was supposed to experience something else first. They say the stages don't actually come in any specific order and may take god knows how long. I'm not sure I ever want to get to acceptance. I'm not sure this is something I want to accept.
I'm trying to write. I'm trying Nanowrimo again. I have the start of an outline for a paranormal romance book. Haven't actually written anything. Actually, that's not true. That bit I posted about Juliette was kind of the jumping off point. Though it's changed since then. I meant to write today. I don't feel like it anymore. At least not that. The Brit and I are writing. But we're doing characters I don't really like so it almost feels like a chore. I didn't want to do this scene from her perspective, I wanted to do it elsewhere, but he's so stuck on his character that whenever she comes up I know I'm not going to get to do my stuff.
I've told him I don't want to talk about Dad, but he doesn't understand that it also means I can't deal with his problems either. I just can't deal with anything. And somehow I'm watching PS I Love You. It's a great movie. And I love Gerard Butler. But watching a movie about a man's death and his wife dealing with it is probably not my best move. Or maybe it is. Who knows.
And now I've run out of things to ramble about I think. I think I'll just curl up in a hole somewhere. A dark, deep hole.
