Time I get in the shower. Start the day. Don’t want to but I have to, that’s what responsible dads do on Father’s Day. Wait, isn’t this day supposed to be about me, or do something for me? I’m honestly confused. Anyway, more coffee then to the shower. Think I’ll leave work early, make up some excuse. That’ll be my gift to myself, ‘cause no one else is doing shit for me. Well, that’s not true… I’m being judged, always.. what I should do better, how I can fix this and that and whatever… Lovely. Like a cake, one really old like me, and no candles. Jack knows what I’m writing, he’s already written this I’m sure, or something like it. Just much much better– No, not my little boy, but THE Kerouac, the REAL Kerouac. My Beat needs to be more sped, more direct, more venomous. Is there a such thing as a Kerouac-Poe-Plath blend? Maybe I just made one, or am one rather.