Log

"I promise not to be irresponsible with this potato gun, sir." That's the last thing I remember ever saying to my dad.
He was a good man, but he trusted me too much.
You can't trust children. They're either too dumb morally or just plain too dumb.
It's incredibly hard to tell people you killed your own father. But what compounds it is when you have to explain you did it with a potato gun. It's like you get them crying and then twist their emotions until they're laughing. And people don't like it when you twist their emotions.
Just look at the Smurfs.
But back to my old man.
I had loaded the gun with a potato and the old man was on the porch admiring me and my potato gun with a large Mason jug full of milk.
I never trusted an adult who drank milk. That's why it always disturbed me that my dad did.
That probably has nothing to do with this, but I'm just saying.
Also, it has nothing to do with me shooting my old man in the face with a potato gun.
Oh, there I go, I gave it away.
That's right, I wasn't paying attention and launched a potato straight to my father's temple, killing him instantly.
If you can call instantly nine months in a coma.
It took forever for the old man to die and this robbed my family of all the money he made selling potato guns.
Destitute, the family moved out of Denver and sent me on my way.
I was only nine.
29.
Fate is a funny thing.
So, there it is. That's me in a nutshell. I mean, the part of me that I didn't want to tell you about on our first date.
That's why I've been acting so strange. I was worried about telling you.
Sure, you're just a hooker, but some people have a hard time having their emotions twisted. That's why I hired a hooker like you.
Escort. Sure, whatever you want to call yourself, lady. But the fact remains, I paid you to listen to me talk about my dad for over three minutes now and there's no way anyone but a filthy whore would put up with that kind of punishment.
Wait!
Don't leave!
OK, leave.