[Have you entered the contest, yet? Have you, did you, will you? Cum on. *snort*]
That’s it. I’m waving my martyr flag in the air. Today, well, it was clarifying.
It’s official, I’ve become realistic and uncontrollable.
How do I know this? Because JDawg threatened to take me to court this morning and all I did was laugh and advise him to get a lawyer, letting him know that my documentation not in his favour might be…detrimental to his cause.
Now, I’m not really sure what his cause is. Somewhere, it got lost in translation, between his anger at having to provide lunch for Isobel for two days in a row and my audacity on New Years Eve. He said a lot of things, completely disregarding of my statement (s. I said it twice) about not wanting to fight.
He said he didn’t care, and that he was going to tell me how it was going to be.
This same person five nights ago showed me an email consisting of his sadness over not seeing Isobel more often, how he wished that we could be a normal family, how he wanted to see her everyday. This same person told me this morning that I owed him a day off of visiting his daughter. Because I had not come home on time the other night.
Makes perfect sense, really, when you consider the overwhelming self-serving behaviour he’s demonstrated over the years.
But it ultimately comes down to this: I pulled a move that he would have (and has) pulled – I came home late, without calling. And because his jealousy metre was at an all-time high that evening, I’m sure visions of me enraptured with another guy’s penis were abound in his little mind. (I wasn’t, for the record. I was enraptured with fireball whiskey, cigarettes and Rock Band. Oh, and FUN.)
Because I didn’t call, it means I was up to no good. Because I didn’t run in the apartment, pleading for his forgiveness, it means I enjoyed being up to no good and how being up to no good might hurt him. Because I didn’t respond and lash out against his silent treatment, it means that I really must not care and am intentionally trying to hurt him.
It all figures so well, really. All those ducks just line right the fuck up.
Except that I wasn’t up to that kind of no good and I wasn’t trying to hurt him – in fact, I was trying to not think about hurting him, about walking away with grace and civility. Then I got distracted by that thing… what’s it called, again? Oh, yeah. FUN.
So because he’s got in all figured out, I’m going to pay for it. Because I’m not bowing down and saying something similar to ‘oh, master, please forgive me, I’ll do whatever it takes and yes, I can put my legs over my head,’ I’m going to pay for it. And because in him trying to make me pay for it, he wants to make Isobel pay for it, I laughed.
Because really? Isn’t it all just further documentation for when he takes me to court for, ahem, full custody? See what a great parent he makes already – being owed a day off from the gruelling 10 hours a week that he sees his daughter?
Dood might wanna think about buying a bed and moving out of his mom’s apartment then, right? And like, not spending 50% of his support/rent-free money on booze and weed.
Maybe.
{And since I love giving a shout-out, if you’re reading this, inlaws, that last loan you sent him? Booze. Inheritance? Only about half was booze. The money for Isobel’s xmas present? Booze. Oh, but she does really like the $60 worth of stuff he got her on Christmas Eve. So, um. Thanks for that? I hope you get a lot of pleasure out of telling him about this blog post.}
