Oh, daddy issues.

I've never had trouble with my dreams up until the ones that actually manage to kill off my family. When my mom dies in a dream I immediately wake up. When my grammy dies, when my dog dies, it's like the dream stops me and shakes me away. But last night, my dad died in my dream. And it was so real. And it seemed so likely. And I remember it like I had written a complete story dedicated to it.

My mom was picking me up from my old job at the boutique and she turns to look at me, pure sadness spread all face and tells me, "I might as well tell you now."

I ask what's wrong. I immediately assumed it had something to do with my aunt or my cousins. But instead she said, "Your dad's dead."

It felt weird. I didn't cry at first. I just asked how it happened. How could it be possible. And I think the saddest thing is that I started running numbers in my head. How was my mom gonna afford groceries with her pay? How was I gonna go to college now? Even my dad hardly ever cared he did pay for most of our things whether he wanted or not. And it felt so strange. So… unreal, but real at the same time.

My mom said my grandmother had found him lying on his bed. Heart attack.

To be honest, I had always opted for lung cancer. With his extreme smoking addiction I had always imagined him years from now developing cancer. I imagined him sickly and coughing. It was a secret fantasy of mine that maybe he would change if he developed a terminal illness. Maybe he would realize that being an asshole to everyone who should care about him would eventually lead him to be completely alone. Maybe he would cry for the first time in his life and apologize to my mother, to my brother, to his ex-wife, and finally, to me.

A heart attack just seems way too quick and easy.

I remember my mom crying over and over.

She was sad. I was just horribly angry. I started to cry. I think it was more… anger than sadness. Anger because dammit he left without ever telling his daughter how much time he spent fucking with her feelings when in fact he should've just told her how glad he was to have her as a daughter. I wanted him to look straight into my mother's eyes and apologize for abusing her and me. I just wanted to drive to wherever the fuck he was and shake him alive. It's selfish. It's very selfish that I couldn't even be sad in my own dream over my father's death. But I was just so full of rage.

He doesn't deserve such an easy way out. A heart attack? That's child's play. Not that I want my dad to suffer a horrible, disgusting death. I don't want that. I just want him to at least go through some kind of… revelation. When my grammy was dying she changed so much. So much. Sometimes for the better, sometimes for the worst but she changed. Sickness changes people. I hate to wish it on my own father. With his mighty luck, he might really just die of old age in his sleep. He might never, ever be touched my a single amount of illness.

He might never in his life even bother to change. I cannot force him to change. I can only change myself. But I can't help but fantasize about him suddenly discovering that he isn't the greatest guy in the world. That not everything he does is mighty fantastic. That he isn't the shit, but a shit. That people are different and beautiful. That being gay doesn't make you a 'faggot'. That being black doesn't make you filthy. That becoming an artist won't make you homeless.

It pains me more than anything in the world that my dad will die as rotten as he is now.

And no one, except for myself, will ever tell him he is wrong.

That's what makes me cry.

BLARGH.

Sorry about this being so serious. i had to write it out before I dreamt of it again.