Wednesday
Media people who have a problem with rap music, conroversial movies, or premarital sex like to throw around the term "family values."
I don't mind saying I don't even know what the hell they're talking about.
I mean, okay, I'm not an idiot. I know what they're talking about-two parents with college degrees, kids in clean sneakers, mass or service or temple (whichever is applicable) every weekend, meat loaf on Monday night, freshly cut grass, and a minivan. Yeah, I know what they mean.
I just don't know it from experience. Anymore.
Consider my family, for example. My current one, that is. Absentee (big time) father, well-meaning concerned guardian, bitchy wife of guardian, chess geeks whose last names I don't even know. That, at present, is as close as I come to having a family.
Can you imagine this crowd sitting down to meat loaf and mashed potatoes some evening?
And what about Renny? He's been so brain-poisoned he actually thought he could purchase himself a family (of violent, hate-obsessed misfits) with a bullet to my face. What makes me ill is wondering how majorly screwed up the kid's real family must be in order for violent misfits to constitute an upgrade.
But the only family I can seem to think about right now is Sam's.
They've got to be somewhere in the realm of decent, don't they? Or else how could they have produced such a perfedt human being as Sam?
All right, so he's not perfect-there's that 108-pound wart on his ass (you know her as Heather), and the guy's a master of the mixed signal. But if he's not Mr. Perfect, he's certainly Mr. Pretty Damn Close.
The thing that's torturing me inside out now is the fact that, for all I know, his parents are sending him a package of hommade peanut butter cookies baked by his litle sister (for some reason, I imagine he has one), with a note saying that Uncle Mort says hi and they'll see him on parents' weekend. Maybe they are at this very second dialing his number, calling him up just to say hi, and since he's not answering, they'll simply assume he's at the library, studying for some huge exam.
Maybe they're eating meat loaf and mashed potatoes, and complaining that he only calls home when he needs money.
But the point is, their son's life is in danger and they have absolutely no idea.
That's killing me.
I mean, okay, my life is in danger and my father has absolutely no idea. But somehow that doesn't bother me as much as Sam's family not knowing.
I guess maybe because I'm figuring if they knew, they'd actually care.
Whereas if my father knew, he'd have to stop and think to remember who I was before he could go back to whatever it is that he's been doing all these years and continue to not give a shit.
Monday
Tuesday
Thursday
Friday
