December 27, 2017:

"Just... live," said my father, nervously, scanning the room with its lack of furniture, smiling with feigned approval when all of his instincts were to complain that it wasn't good enough.

He paid his $60 monthly child support one or two months per year and drove a Porsche.

Eyes of predator, pressed white slacks, anger. Anger that he had no father, anger that his struggle to achieve the "I'm-as-good-as-you" material plateau he sought had proven so difficult. Anger that his marriages failed, anger that the women he seduced kept presenting him with children he didn't want and that he now had to divert small monthly sums in token support. Anger that his house wasn't clean enough, anger that his car didn't roar with enough power to represent the "I'm-as-good-as-you" material plateau he sought.

Best of all possible worlds: I inherited his megahealthy athlete's genes without having to live with him. Dodged that bullet.

I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care.

The power's out, like him I'm angry at the world.