Son-In-Law

 I was a dad once to an ungrateful son-in-law. He hated me because I was black-ish. What chance did I have? I painted my ass cheeks white once and blew a fart in his direction. This peculiar mannerism did jack squat to ingratiate me into his good books. In fact he put my trainers in the bathtub when it was full of water. I tried my hardest with him though. I was patient, kind, caring. When he exhibited an interest in Hollywood and animals, I downloaded that flick with Caesar the chimpanzee in. Planet Of The Apes I think, the first remake. I knew he would adore it, and he did adore it. It was a moving motion picture. I was almost tearful myself.

In one portion of the feature, the chimp is removed from his beloved bedroom home with humankind and dumped in a solitary prison cage. He draws his bedroom window on the wall and stares into the makeshift vista all day, slumped against the bricks in a distraught state.

I took pictures of my step-son playing hockey. We had a game of penalties against some random tween from around the block, who unfortunately happened to win by the way, via a hats-off low bottom corner placer in sudden death. I taught him how to use his weaker foot when the astro-turf wasn’t in use. I greased up the kerbside for him so he could do tricks on his skateboard on it.

He even provided backing vocals for the album I was producing at the time. I like kids singing in the music industry, I think it softens the grunty gruff male leads. I put a choir effect on his voice most of the time. It worked great.

I asked my little sister to link up with him. We recorded a cover version of The Connells 74/75 track. Both of their prepubescent voices sounded absolutely delightful in tandem on the finished song. I thought about taking them on a pub tour wherein I would rap my album live with them alongside me backing me up.

His mum had a mental break one evening. He was out late playing hockey in Manchester, but she said she could hear him in distress from a nearby residence. She started knocking on stranger’s houses searching for him. I couldn’t calm her down. This conduct led to an assessment in hospital. With Yours Truly already hearing voices in his napper, there was nobody eligible to look after him. So he was shafted away into social care. For a while I had no idea where either of them were. The house was in darkness every time I went down there. I finally found them both at the hospital in the guest room. We enjoyed a reunion of sorts.

I forgot to mention that I charged into the neighbour’s house armed with a butcher’s knife up my sleeve. I’d just started hearing auditory harassment and, combined with my girlfriend’s disabling psychosis, was in no mood for a missing/abducted/kidnapped stepson. So I stormed in there ready for action. Thankfully there was no one home and no one got stabbed in the face. My rashness has calmed down a lot since those uncertain times.

When I got sectioned later on it spelled all but the end of the relationship. We kept in touch but it wasn’t the same. I don’t know where they both are at the moment, they might have returned back to Europe. Maybe I’ll meet somebody else if I remain clean and keep showing up with the best version of myself. You’re about to encapture a load of that version because I ain’t relinquishing this privileged position.

There hasn’t been a twinkle in my eye since my ex and her son, hardly, apart from one or two brief flings. There are plenty of women in my life, but they are bit-part cameo players who I simply share a small-talk greeting with in the pub or other. Some of them are more special to me than they know, but there’s no way I can ever divulge that information upon their ears.

Then there are the spiritual daughters which reside in my heart.

I keep configuring new personalities in an imaginary schizophrenic realm to keep me company. Climbing the walls so often tends to have this flipside about it. One of the characters I created walked past me in the street one time. I’m half-inclined to suppose that the authorities are cloning likenesses from my visual cortex and using them against me as biological weaponry. Imagine your daughter becomes evil and wants to hurt you. They are deadset upon stopping me from having anything, including pigments of my own mind. Yet I keep showing up with the goods, performing holy rites in God-fearing faith, hoping that my manifestations will prove true. Everyone on the psych ward act obsessed by what churns up from my mind. They cannot believe that my creativity runs so deep, into a mysterious spiritual internal chasm of the soul.

What’s the matter, can’t an adult have an imaginary friend or something?

I currently have...aw d'you know what, I'm not even going into it, because I'll start attracting restless spirits again, and I've only just got rid of a bunch of them. Sometimes I wish i was not innovative in any way, as it brings with it a lot of persecution. The powers that be (at least the ones I know) hate free thinking. Combine this with a faith in Angels and before you know it your brain fluid is under attack from clandestine technologies. I attract narcissists, bullies, secret societies, military departments, demons, you name it.

I tell them all to f**k off, thank you very much. Even my old flame lovelies have turned against me. Even my own flesh and blood. Because what comes out of my head (and heart) makes them corrosive with envy. I can't bloody help it though. What do they want me to do, not blog? Not express my inner thought rhythms?

My readers need to know. And I'm the feisty one telling them so. 

Don't forget to stay tuned. We'll talk again soon. Until then, take amazing care of yourself.

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