Scram

There’s no such thing as “Father’s Day” here.

Not for me. Not on this site. Take a hike.

There are far more worthier people for you to send your well wishes and accolades on. They deserve it.

For Tom Butcher, the sperm donor responsible for the mess of a human being who writes the drivel on this site… I hope someone stumbles on this page in a google search, and lets you know someone out there thinks you’re a piece of shit on this lovely day.

I would like to think that somewhere deep inside my “father’s” black little heart that there might have been some shred of humanity in him. Maybe he thought of coming back to visit once or twice, but thought that maybe too much time has passed, it was too late, or he wanted to have this really good excuse that he’s come up with in a tomorrow that would never come.

My wife (who’s adopted) really pushed for me to try and track him down once we got the internet. I was able to communicate with people in his hometown in West Virginia. People were really responsive too.

It got really close until I told them who I was, and why I was looking for him.

Then these people stopped writing back.
So fuck them too.

I wrote “Dear Dad” on what would have been my mother’s 75th birthday. I decided this will be that one kick in the balls I’m sure my mother would have wanted to give him.

Because the day I wrote that… it officially became “too late”.
The window of understanding and forgiveness is closed forever.


I had one “happy” father’s day post here. In 2001, when the kids treated me out to a visit to stables, and I rode a horse for the first time. All the cute home-made gifts, waiting for me afterward… I felt like the luckiest guy on the planet.

It was just a few short weeks later that they were ripped out of my arms by the state police and two madwomen FROM Child Abductive Services with court orders, all for the crime of being down on our luck… and just because they can.

They’ve never gotten over it. They’re home, but they’ve never felt safe and secure since. I’ve never forgiven myself for allowing that to happen. And I can’t think of this day without remembering July 12th, 2001.

Don’t even think about contacting me today. Don’t want to be consoled, don’t want to hear about how I deserved it all for whatever I wrote about you or your friend in a post, and I sure as hell don’t want to hear about your “similar experiences”. Just back the fuck off today.

There’s no Father’s Day here.
Just broken hearts, an empty soul, and more rage and hatred than I know what to do with.

Disclaimer: The views expressed herein are solely those of Eric Brooks. They do not necessarily reflect those of his employers, friends, contacts, family, or even his pets (though my cat, Puddy, seems to agree with me on many key issues.). In accordance to my terms of use, you hereby acknowledge my right to psychoanalyze you, practice accupuncture, and mock you incessantly with every visit. As the user, you also acknowledge that the author has been legally declared a "Problem Adult" by the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania, and is therefore not responsible for any of his actions.

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