This is going to be a happy story.
So I won’t talk about that time you accidentally sent me to the emergency room when I was just two-years old because you didn’t know I was allergic to peanut butter.
And I won’t talk about the time you forgot to pick me up after soccer practice when I was seven and I was stuck in the rain all by myself for what felt like forever.
And I won’t talk about the time when I wanted to be a cowboy with a big gun for Halloween and instead you dressed me up as a giant teddy bear and all the other boys from school made fun of me.
And I won’t talk about the time when you forced me to wear your old sweatshirts from the eighties, the ones with the random animals on them, to school because the washing machine broke and I didn’t have any clean clothes.
And I won’t talk about the time that you bought me a bicycle as my big Christmas present even though you knew I didn’t know how to ride one and was terrified of even trying again despite being older now.
And I won’t talk about the time when I brought my girlfriend home and you were so drunk that you were mumbling ideas about where I should take her for a date while playing solitaire on the kitchen table by yourself.
And I won’t talk about the time that you found my stash of porn magazines and forced me to sit down and talk about it with you in a serious manner. It was awkward and the loudest parts seemed to be the moments of silence when I was trying to come up with a response to you saying that the pictures were sinful.
And the happy part of the story is that it’s over and I don’t have to talk about all those times anymore.
Profile: Patrick Trotti