Papa Can You Hear Me?

I don’t have a dad. Well, that’s a lie, everybody has a dad. Even though I do think there’s a real possibility that I got here by immaculate conception.

My mother was probably drinking a Fresca during the hot July month in 1982, perplexed as to why she gained so much weight over the past couple of months. Whip, bam, boom, out popped the H. Actually, if you talk to my Mom, I didn’t pop out, but rather was pulled out kicking and screaming, in the process breaking three of her ribs.

My parents divorced in the late 80’s, I lived with my father for a couple year’s thereafter, until he decided that I should live with my Mom. He was around for a couple of years after that, but then in 1996, he disappeared. I know he moved to Germany, and the one time I spoke to him in the year’s since he was living in Virginia.

I’m not sad over his absence, I have a wonderful step-dad, but I can’t help but wonder sometimes what he’s up to. I think I’ve come up with a pretty good list of possibilities:

1) He’s the guy who puts the lovely chocolate mint on our pillows at hotels.

2) He’s hunting down Osama bin Laden.

3) He’s Rachel Maddow’s personal assistant.

4) He’s the cab driver that stops for you the moment it starts to rain.

5) He’s a Fresca delivery man.

I think the latter option is more likely than the others.

Wherever he is, he should remain a mystery. I like thinking about him every time I drink a Fresca rather than actually have him in my life.

Unless he’s a millionaire and needs to get rid of some dough. I’m just saying, I got a one-man show that isn’t going to pay for itself!