I didn't get a chance to pull out before I had vomit on my hand and arm.

I know it's not even noon, but I am having a beer.

At about 6 am this morning I was puked on my own father. It was sort of my fault, but I was only trying to be of use.

I had been chatting on FB with some guy in Turkey, pretending I could be his everything and the mother of his children too. I fell asleep and dreamt that I was a housewife, and that I was baking a pound cake for the housewife next door, the one with the dreamy eyes.

I woke up to the sound of glass shattering on the tiled floor followed by a dull thud. I ran downstairs and there was dad. My father. I hadn't even known he was at the house. I thought he was in Topanga Canyon. He was on the floor among broken plates and cutlery. A few days worth of dishes I had left behind.
He'd swallowed pills, he told me. He wanted to die, he said, because there was no love left in this world.
Will you forgive me? he asked and looked at me with eyes like soapy water. A drama queen on his death bed.
I told him to go fuck himself and that I wouldn't forgive him. And then I shoved my fist into his mouth and tried to get my fingers as far back as possible.

I didn't get a chance to pull out before I had vomit on my hand and arm.

My father comes from a long line of pill-poppers, in fact we are citizens of a Nation of Pill-poppers.

He rests now.

His puke was rockstar vomit; there were pieces of corn and soggy pills swimming around in honey-colored bile. And one lonely gummi bear.

I want to thank the lovely and talented Erica Clay of alabastercow for giving me the Kick-Ass Blog Award. She's also a vegan. Check out her Blog Herbivorous for some cooking advice.