Everything I learned about long term relationship I learned from the Absurdist play by Samuel Beckett Waiting for Godot. Let me share with you the lines which most summarizer my years of deep thought and reflection:
VLADIMIR: Let’s go.
ESTRAGON: Wait, there’s my belt.
VLADIMIR: It’s too short.
ESTRAGON: You could hang onto my legs.
VLADIMIR: And who’d hang onto mine?
Many people might not agree with my assessment that long term relationships are like wanting to hang yourself off a willow tree (a weeping willow) but being denied due to an egregious lack of materials. For those who don’t believe me, let me ask you: “What are your reasons why divorce is so high and single parent homes are so prevalent? Yeah?! …but you can use the economy and women being indoctrinated by Oprah as the root cause of every problem: chemical weapons in Syria, the growing rift between the haves and have-nots in this country, and erectile dysfunction.
Mes Amis, Je te supplique
Life is a giant question-mark and we always find ourselves chasing the illusion of the certainty.
Let me be the first to tell you that there are two events in your adult life where you have absolutely no say in what’s going on. The first event is your wedding ceremony.
Concerning the wedding ceremony let me ask you two questions:
- Do you know a dude that actually wants to participate in and spend money on 10-100 people people’s enjoyment on a day that is all about someone else other than him?
- Do you know someone who wants to start a life together in debt for an over indulgent ceremony, with a mortal being that has the audacity to clandestinely fart, burp, and shit quietly like they are better than everyone else?
When my friend got married we did everything to assure him that life wasn’t over, that from the dried sullen ashes of who he had once been, a new beast would arise stronger happier and more stable than its last incarnation despite the fact that we had stop believing in fairy tales decades ago, but the cigars, strip clubs, excessive alcohol intake did nothing to slow the ever luminous realization that it was in fact over.
The other event, to cut the denouement, is pregnancy. Looking at how happy my parents are in every fucking picture from 1981 onward it seems that bringing forth new life is an amazingly happy time. However you face never gets the message. Let me give you a taste of my experience with pregnancy as this is round 2 for me.
Thanks to seemingly every fucking movie most people think that men, especially black men, want no part caring for the women we impregnate and our progeny. Campaigns are launched to remind us that our spouse and kids need us. You are advised to go to the hospital with your lady, read pregnancy books with her. The best thing is talking to the baby as he or she slowly drains the life out of the women you love right before your very eyes, until she has the attitude and demeanor of the Alien Queen that made Sigourney Weaver and the Alien franchise so popular. Every word from her now is a concentrated dosage of vitriol that burns through all the layers of flesh and bone right riddling your soul like an innocent African immigrant- victim of police brutality.
So I did that and it was beautiful to see as much as I did due to the late-term miscarriage, the miracle of life. I had pictures of the ultrasound at my desk at work reminding me why I put up with these fuck-tards and don’t turn to a life of crime. I tried to act “normal” which meant adorning myself with pants around the house instead of my tattered underwear. I cooked super specific meals, and made sure the prenatal vitamins were taken. For the first time in my life I seriously tried to fall in line. Then I took a day off one day to go to the clinic with MrsMaryMuthaFuckingPoppins only to be treated like I was Williams S. Burroughs at another party. I was treated by the staff like I was a walking scourge, raining disease on innocent women, and it was a polluted rain tainted with the seemingly endless reserves of genetic materials in the juice filled nut-bag I called a scrotum.
The doctor ignores you completely and talks to your lady. People call your house to ask about the lady. Neighbors push you out of the way while you are carried 15 bags of groceries up a 3 story fucking walkup in NYC, to talk to her and see how she is. You pick up extra shifts because baby accessories are fucking expensive. At the end of the week you plop down on the floor against the wall like a drug addicted veteran. As fate would have it your father calls you and says: Comment ca va mon fils ? ( how are you my son) and you sigh and you both know that that epic moment has come in your career as a man.
You realize that your job as a father is to make sure every-thing is paid for, the forms are filled, the baby stuff taken out of boxes and assembled, the heavy stuff is moved then placed where it belongs, mutter to yourself on your favorite chair every night after the news and finally unceremoniously die. Yes your only relief is death, the sweet siren call of an eternal somnolence purchased with a lifetime of suffering under the heavy weight of being socially, economically and familially expendable. You realize especially if you’re a minority in this country that you will live just long enough to teach whatever kid you have what you’ve learned from life and die early enough for your significant other to still get someone good looking while your life settlement/insurance payments keep her afloat, and they will probably do it on your chair that you saved months for to get.
Ok That’s over The Serious Bit
That to me is the generic script that is passed around, nowadays for father hood in America of course you could never guess that from reading a lot of these so-called mommy and daddy bloggers. They make me sick they paint this fictitious image of life that doesn’t exist. They think they are special because they decided for whatever reason not to pay for condoms on night. There’s no honor in that, Freddie Mercury did the same thing and no one is fucking clapping.
Ok I digress. I joke around a lot but deep down inside I love my lady and the lil alien feasting on her innards. What I have noticed on this Round Two of me Becoming a pops is how fathers are treated socially. When you hear that you may become a pops in 9 months you have two scenarios in front of you, well many men I know I know (myself included) do. The first scenario is that you work yourself into an early grave to give everyone a better life. During your kids formative years you may miss their first steps because your pulling 80 -100 hour weeks, but eventually when they are old enough they will completely ignore you when they don’t need stuff and put you in a home to die in a sanitized mad-house as an homage to the fallen leaves on the tree of youth. The second scenario is that you accept the lesser pay in exchange for more time with your family money is tight, you cant get everyone what they want, you give them what they need. Tough decision.
But that is not more
Your kid will spend most of his or her time with their mother. 74-76 % of their elementary school teacher will be women. Unless the milkman is fucking your wife and helping your kids with their homework there will not be a stable male presence in the home which both kids need for their psycho-social development. This is more complicated when you realize that 83 percent of public school teachers were White, 7 percent each were Black or Hispanic. Judging from the way white women of all ages clutch their purses or cross the street when I walk by or blatant have said the “N-word” to my face this is not good news.
eh just some funny sarcastic thoughts