She said Daddy Alex… He said Daddy Alex is fuckable, right?
There I was, wearing a ribbed tank, trucker cap, flipping burger patties.
Children, please! Let daddy cook!!
The adoration and objectification felt nice. It’s been a while since I’ve felt desired, even if in jest, and certainly a long time since I’ve been gawked at by someone I wanted to be gawked at by.
It can’t be. I don’t want what she wants. She’s also too young. She’s tall, sweet, pretty, and fucking hilarious. I’d be lying if I didn’t wonder what making out with her would be like. I suspect it would be pretty great. She’s a sweet bean.
I’m still licking my wounds—my past mistakes. They see a version of me lacking the poor decisions. My full weight. An absent father, something she said, fathers are hot. Have I forgiven myself? Have I really? I wonder.
Look… I can’t do anything romantic with this person. She’s told me I’m, like, not into you…Thanks! It’s a silly thing. A silly mind fuck? Perhaps. It’s an under-the-surface flirtation, I think. I would be remiss if I didn’t mention that a mushroom microdose wasn’t in effect. It’s fun. She detects my reverence. I detect hers. It’s cute.
How do I share the things I still kick on about? I still feel the need to kick myself for what’s happened—I’m not over it, am I? Some days I am and some days I’m not.
Ugh!
I’ve done what I’ve done. Made what amends there are to make, and that’s that.
I wasn’t there for much of my son’s life. I had stuff going on that I hadn’t figured out. I was a hurt person, afraid of hurting someone else the way I had been hurt, that I had been broken. Life stuff, call it what you want. I had to deal with a lot to get to the point where I could reconnect with my son. There is still healing to do but I’m trying and we’re connected. It’s not great but it’s a start.
My ex… I’ll forever regret my choices. It was my villain arc… I chose, and I chose poorly.
Villain arc? That’s silly. It makes a mockery of breaking the trust of someone I loved—I didn’t take care of her. I was careless. I stacked my poor choices, I knew what I was doing, and I kept moving and never bothered to ask why. Why are you doing this? What are you afraid of? What would happen if you talked to her? Told her what you feared. What then? I’d already made it up in my mind. I lit the fuse. Tick, tick, tick went a bomb.
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It’s okay. I can breathe. I can speak. I can feel. I can’t go back.
I also don’t want to continue to drown in my shame. I have to let the same go or, I don’t know, hold it differently. Let it go? Can I do that? Can I really? Is that allowed?
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