I'm a bastard, actually. My biological father died when I was 16. Mom brought me the obit and said something to the effect of "I thought I'd tell you that he died, 'cause it wouldn't be fair to tell you later if you ever asked me." Yeah, my mom loves the run-ons almost as much as she loves me. I thought it was weird at the time because I'd never once asked her about the guy that knocked her up. Sure, my dad (actually my stepdad, but anyone who'd marry a 21-year-old gal with a five-year-old kid deserves the title way more than my sperm donor) and his best friend made mention of the dude when they were drunk and I was but a wee lad of 14, but I'd never said word one to my mom about the guy.
Turns out that the asshat had a kid before me and like four afterward with the gal he actually married. I imagine that a shotgun and an angry old man from rural southeast Kansas were present at the ceremony. I met my half-sister when the Arby's opened up in my hometown. She knew me, and I didn't know her. I still don't know her, because I wasn't interested in catching up with the firstborn of my deadbeat bio-dad from across the counter. Jamocha was just more important at the time.
Still, it's haunted me ever since, and it's started a trend most foul in my life. I remind everyone of someone. I talk to someone for a minute, and they know me from somewhere. Maybe it's my familiar face, my ascerbic wit, or the funny way I cover my fucked-up teeth with my lips when I talk, but everyone knows me from somewhere. It makes things tough for me, 'cause I suck with names. I don't know a damn one of these people who know me from somewhere. Maybe my evil twin (remember, I have four half-brothers that I've never met) has been acting all cool and me-like around folks. Regardless, I remind everyone of someone. I think I reminded my ex-wife of the first guy who raped her when she was six or somesuch melodramatic bullshit.
It's handy sometimes, I'll admit. When I met my present chick, I think I reminded her of someone she either really loved and respected, or just really wanted to make the sexings with. Either way, I made out like a bandit. If bio-dad could see me now, I'm sure he'd be real goddamn proud (or he'd have no idea who the fuck I was, since I'm almost certain he never saw me). I remind my baby girls (s'what I call my cats, no rugrats for the golem) of that guy who feeds them in the morning and lets them climb on him when he gets home from work. (Who is that guy, anyway?) So it ain't all badness and woe-is-me.
So, this is me meandering through a writing exercise. The idea is to answer some really defining question. I chose "So, you're a jackass?" because it seemed easy enough to answer. I hope it's been revealing, 'cause it's intended to set the tone for my entries from here on out. I'll either rant about something that pisses me off, or rave about something that makes me smile. Heck, sometimes I might bring in a guest to do one or the other for me.
That's just the kind of magnificent bastard I am.