Another year that moves to February 14th and another year I will spend it with my dad watching a sporting event, both of us doing our best to ignore all the damn people around us pretending to be happy. The spending of the day with dad isn’t so bad. What I hate is that if I was home I would have at least a chance of spending it where and with who and how I want. Instead, I pretend like I don’t know what’s going on with him, pretend that he isn’t spending it somewhere else with someone else and how she wants. It’s been since mid June of last year that I decided I couldn’t take it anymore, and tomorrow, exactly 8 months later, I’ll wake again to the process of convincing myself that it doesn’t matter and I’m over it. Then, as is every day, I’ll make it through and start it all again on Friday, thankfully removed from the sappy overbearing overwhelming day that is Thursday.
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