So, yes, my brother is a dumbass, the kind of dumbass who probably needs Stacy Campfield to write up some legislation to protect him from the women he fucks and his own dumbass decisions.
That’s fine. The thought of him sitting in jail makes me want to throw up and cry. But then I think, well, at least he’s not in jail in metro Atlanta, and then I feel like a bad person for being grateful for that, since there are a lot of sisters with dumbass brothers sitting in jail in Atlanta and those sisters must be scared shitless. I feel for them. I am also scared.
Instead, I’ve been thinking about my parents, scrambling to come up with the money to get him set free. I don’t say anything. It’s their money; they can do what they want with it; and if it makes them feel better to spend it all on the recalcitrant brother, well, bless their hearts, they should spend it on the recalcitrant brother.
But here’s also what I’ve been thinking, America. I’m not sure how much money they have left to throw at him. They threw a great deal of the inheritance they got from my grandmother at him. They’ve thrown a great deal of their own money at him. And now they’re scrambling to get a loan or, perhaps, to cash in my dad’s life insurance policy, in order to get him out of jail.
I don’t talk to them about their finances. I don’t talk to them about how much money they throw at the recalcitrant brother, because a.) I know if I needed it, they would find a way to help me just as much and b.) I don’t think I could stand to know. It’s got to be literally tens of thousands of dollars over his adult life, I think.
I don’t know where it comes from. I worry that my dad has been fudging the truth about why he hasn’t retired. Every year it’s some story about how the church is dicking him over on his insurance, and every year I’ve bought into that, especially because it seems like, for the past couple of years, there’s been real talk about him actually retiring when he hits 65. But I’m worried they’re spending their retirement money on my brother.
And, if so, I feel like we have to have a talk about that.
Because, America, I can’t support them. It’s fine if they retire and go to work at Walmart or something–you know, retire from these jobs to take other jobs. It’s fine for a while.
But a point will come, I assume, when they won’t be able to work. And they’ll have to have some money to live off of. I don’t have it. The Butcher, obviously, doesn’t have it. And the recalcitrant brother sure as hell doesn’t have it. If they don’t have it, they are screwed.
I am scared shitless that they’re going to need me to take care of them and I’m not going to be able to afford to do it. I can’t even tell you. I’m sitting here just staring off into space between sentences at the thought of them needing to move in with me.
I don’t have a spouse.
I especially don’t have a spouse whose also pulling in a decent salary.
What will happen if I have to feed them and put a roof over their heads?
How am I going to do that?
If you are the praying sort, please pray that my parents are not stupid enough to squander what little retirement they have trying to save my brother from himself and the evil women he fucks.
p.s. Not to mention how shitty a blog this would become if every entry started, “Today, my dad yet again reminded me of how fat I am and how no man will ever love me because I’m ugly and bossy.”