Poor Planning

I’m drunk. Not enough to achieve my goal of passing out and forgetting this godforsaken day. And I’m out of fucking tequila and apparently no one is monitoring their email waiting for drunken tearful pleas for rides to the liquor store.

Well, fuck that.

Here’s the problem, America. I have a nephew about to turn four and his best hope for a “good” life is to be raised by my brother who owes his whole life to the Ku Klux Klan, who took him in and fed him and gave him a job and kept him afloat when no one else could reach him and what the fuck do you do when you realize that the Klan is keeping your brother alive?

Oh, sure, you can all say that you wouldn’t have anything to do with a bunch of violent racist assholes, but they aren’t feeding your nephew, who is too young to help himself.

My god, how do you stand it when you look in the back seat and see him sleeping with the sunglasses you bought him when he insisted resting on top of his little blond head and he’s smiling in his sleep because nothing bothers him and he doesn’t quite get that his mom is a crack whore–“It’s okay, grandpa, don’t cry. Sometimes mommies don’t come home. But you have to be a big boy. Don’t cry.”–but he surely knows something is wrong.

Who’se going to take him? My parents? They can’t. They’re old and they’re falling apart and they let him do what he wants because they can’t stand to see him upset because in the back of their minds they know how lucky we are to have him and have him well and not ruined by all of the drugs his parents couldn’t stop doing long enough to give him a real shot.

Me? I couldn’t even get him to the fucking bathroom on time and he cried when he peed and I cried too because it wasn’t his fault. I should have guessed, but the amount of Koolaid and juice and stuff, that he’d have to go. And then, y’all, I couldn’t find any clean underwear for him, so I put him in a pair of dirty ones and he didn’t know any better, which makes me cry harder to think of it.

Oh, come near us, America. Give us small children. Let us ruin them. Why the fuck not?

I already have the recalcitrant brother’s dog and I have the Butcher who came to me because the recalcitrant brother needed to go home and both of them being in the same place would violate both of their terms of probation.

And I would in a second take that little boy too. I don’t know how, because I can’t even keep us in food and clothing and today I just want to get drunk, but I would find a way to make that boy a happy home if I could.

I’m so afraid for him, I can’t stand it.

And I know he loves his dad and could not wait to see him, but Jesus Fucking Christ, I feel like a failure letting him go down to Georgia.

I can’t stand it. I just can’t stand it. I feel like my heart is about to explode, I want so much to do what’s right for him.

But what’s right? What the fuck is right? I can’t see a way.

Katherine Coble, who I think doesn’t really like me, but I’m constantly taken aback by her wisdom, said something about making a commitment to life and I think that was the wisest thing I’ve heard in a long time, but I don’t know how to do it.

I feel like, if I could do it, I’d do it, but I don’t see how.

What happens when she gets him back? What then? My sister in law, not Katherine.

The Butcher is home and he says I’m being silly, which means he’s not going to take me to the liquor store.

“The other nephew only seems mildly fucked up.”

Still Surly

I took the day off work and took the dog to the park and I walked the loop and I tried to feel better, but I’m just fucking grouchy.

The house smells slightly like cat piss and the living room is still a mess and the Butcher has “other things” to do other than pick it up and I’ll be damned if I’m going to do it. Anyway, he’s gone, which is good, because after thirteen hours in a car with him, I’ve had all the god damned togetherness I can take.

It’s eleven o’clock. I’d like to start drinking. Right now.

Three things stand in my way:

1. I’d have to go out and buy liquor.
2. It’s eleven in the morning. Christ.
3. Even if I could convince myself that my starting to drink at eleven in the morning would be best for everyone because it would improve my fucking attitude, I can’t quite convince myself that my drinking alone at eleven in the morning is really that good an idea. It sets a precedent, and not a good one.

Peeing in the Back Yard

Both of my nephews are standing in my back yard, feet shoulder width apart, showing me how to do it like a man.

God, I love these boys and I’m so glad to be home.

There are a lot worse things in the world than having adorable nephews who say “y’all” naturally and think that peeing in the back yard is a great treat.