If it were up to me Julie would be telling this.

    She’s a lawyer and therefore clear and concise, with enough wit to keep it going.  She starts all her stories at the beginning, page 1, Chapter one, without rough drafts, straight through, not a single, fucking misstep.

    In fact she just now occurs to me that she’s perfect. In a very interesting sort way of way. Which I am now about to tell you.

    But the thing about my telling of things is that any time I try and explain it to people I end up hurting their feelings. Just sort of a gift I have, I guess, hahahahaha.  Which most likely means I’m going to hurt your feelings, gentle reader.

    Hope it helps us all, that I call you all Gentle. I guess I’m trying to soften the blow, of which there will be some.

    And blah, blah, blah.

   So let me just blurt it out probably the very worst of this story, so we can move onto the juicy stuff.  Okay. Here it is.

   I HAVE A MENTALLY RETARDED SON FROM A ONE NIGHT STAND AND I’VE NEVER SEEN THE KID OR HAD ANY CONTACT WITH HIS THE MOTHER AND HAVE NOT SENT THEM SO MUCH AS A CARD, MUCH LESS A CENT.

    There, gentle reader. Back to normal caps. Jeez, now I feel sick to stomach. But it’s not because of guilt. It’s a hangover.