The price of genius does not come cheap. You gots to give for what you get.
The first item usually up for sale in the Gutter? Common fucking sense.
The first item usually up for sale in the Gutter? Common fucking sense.
Forgetfulness by Kate Imbach
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I bet it’s easier for the daughters of serial killers. If
your dad gets caught running around strangling brunettes I’m sure you can chalk
it up to his dark side and still fondly remember the times he let you eat raw
cookie dough when your mother wasn’t looking.
I'm not so lucky. My father killed half the population of
Salt Lake City because he was a blundering idiot despite his two PhDs and job
at a top-secret (not anymore) laboratory. He wore tweed blazers and his
Blackberry on a belt clip. Everyone forgave him for wearing mismatched shoes
and running over traffic cones. His absentmindedness had always been part of
his charm. We affectionately called him a menace.
My dad’s forgetfulness forced his reliance on others,
especially me. I checked that his shirt was buttoned correctly in the mornings.
I turned the car off when he left it running in the evenings. Whenever I fixed
something for him he’d smile, whack his forehead with his palm and say that he
didn’t know what he’d do without me.
I buzzed in the static of his attention.
He died horribly, like everyone he killed. It took three
days.
“I don’t remember putting the vial in my pocket,” he
infamously said to a reporter on his deathbed, mostly paralyzed and trying to
explain himself. “It was a simple mistake, like leaving the toaster on or the
garage door open.”
That comment was a message to me. He meant that his
forgetfulness rotted without my watchfulness.
He meant that it was all my fault.
He meant that it was all my fault.
