Rabble Rouser

If I seem like a total fuck up, it’s because I am.  I’m previously disposed to it.  Not that I blame anyone but myself.  I’d love to tag my father with the blame—I do any time I can except in the company of his family.  But he’s not responsible for what happened.  He didn’t hold the whiskey to my lips.  He didn’t ask me to spend three months digging holes in his dead father’s front yard, or to victimize his mongrel of a hometown with my curiosity.  He was without responsibility.  Which was part of the problem.  I’m one of those pelican children pre-cursed by a father who shouldn’t have been.  In point of fact, there might have been no Jackson Calvert had it not been for a drunken fest, a conception without intention.  Oh when?  About half as many years ago as my father’s age was that summer.  You can always count on a plagiarist for a fancy prose style.