My memoir, which I have toiled on for many days, is dedicated to the many important people in my life.
To my Dad who abandoned me as a child, but when we reunited later, donated a second-hand stroller to me for my own child, which would have been really handy if the courts hadn’t terminated my parental rights. I’m not sure why they did that. I thought everything was going really well with my parenting classes and therapy.
To my other Dad who has always been there for me when I needed money. I know we don’t really love each other any more, but you’re handy to have around. I forgive you for putting me in a hold, and I’m sorry that I bit your hand so hard. It could all have been avoided if you would just understood what I was telling you.
To my mother, who kicked me out of her home, because her daughter from that other guy who was not one of my fathers accused me of sexual abuse. Which was perfectly OK, because I was able to live with that really nice, obese woman who couldn’t get around but was able to run a meth lab out of her home to provide for the all the people she let live with her, including that mother and son who probably murdered her and fled to the Turtle Mountain Indian reservation.
To my other mom who I haven’t spoken to in years, but still have that one fond memory of, which I will cherish forever. And I am sorry that I triggered you so much that you couldn’t spend time with me or talk to me, because you had your own childhood was also pretty shitty.
To my boyfriend, who is going to be here from the East Coast any second now. It’s been a long while since I’ve heard from you. What’s going on? I still believe that you did have a vasectomy.