I wish I had a big fucking novel for my re-open; I wish I had thought to write this up in the eight months I’ve had it sitting, but if I wasn’t unprepared, I wouldn’t be me. This is a special day for me; not because I did something that’s been on my to-do for six years, or because it’s been six years since something like Lyone — a thing I dumped all my thoughts on — was in my life. Lyone meant a lot to me, and if it wasn’t for a combination of this day and Chris kicking my ass every time I turtle shelled out of life, it’d probably be sitting for another eight months.

I shit you not, this is what my rough draft of this post looked like for all of those eight months:



I haven’t gotten to celebrate this day with my Dad for six years, and man — he was horrible about his birthdays. He hated getting older, he hated regretting the things he didn’t do since his last one, he hated feeling that regret every single year, and he hated that he couldn’t stop feeling that way. Trying to tell him that he helped people, sometimes in big ways (his job in the medical field) and in small ways (giving his special brand of “boy IF YOU DON’T GET YOURSELF TOGETHER” advice), didn’t shake him of those feelings.

Because we’re the Bat family, it became a Family Tradition™ to completely distract him from all of his feelings. This originated from my Dad’s 30th — a year and a half before I was born — of him moping around on a deep sea fishing ship. He was dressed like a pirate, next to his often-declared love of his life who was also dressed like a pirate, moping around because he was 30. He hadn’t done a lot of stuff at 30, G. He was getting old at 30, G. She took one look at this really tall child and his moping — and married him anyway.

On his 40th, my Mom nipped all of That Shit in the bud, and threw a surprise birthday party. THAT HE DIDN’T ATTEND, because he was — YEP! — moping at the bar he was a part-time DJ at. My Mom called him, and covertly asked, “Hey, it’s kind of late, didn’t you get off work two hours ago? It’s not like I threw a party, ahahahha, that’s a strange and weird thing to do on your birthday. Lowkey, the lights are all off, and it’s BECAUSE I AM IN BED AND NOT HIDING, READY TO SHOUT AT YOU.” He came home, was “surprised”, and then got handed a bust-shaped cake. Yes, a cake shaped like boobs. Because my Dad is a future version of me that lived in the past.

His 50th consisted of my Mom Freaking Out because we were so broke, and she didn’t have the money to do anything. “It’s going to be fine,” she said determinedly. It wasn’t fine; after two hours of moping, she called the neighbours over, who brought Jose Cuervo and weed. We all sang him happy birthday, and let him talk for three hours about cars with minimal eye rolling.

This is for you, Dad. I miss you every single day, and there’s not a day that goes by that I don’t wish you were here, experiencing every high and low with me. I want to hear your voice again, I want to cry on your shoulder when it gets too hard, I want to laugh with you just one more fucking time. I want your advice, I want you telling me to get the fuck over it, I want you to tell me I’m okay being me. I don’t get any of that, but I do get this.

Happy birthday, Dad.