Ah damn. The captain just died. For real this time; this ain't no hail Mary thrown between the third and fourth season to force the writers to continue the show as is, no, Patrick Stewart fucking died. The nerve of that asshole! The gall of becoming my favorite hero in space after first seeing Star Trek shortly after my mom passed away. I mean, the dude, being bald and skinny, was my theoretical father - the one who gave good advice as opposed to the very real father I had that was bald and skinny who throttled my ass when my six year old self would spell a word like "species" as "shpeeshes," given how much of a selfish piece of shit I inherently was, given how I would be thrown full speed into my bookshelf if I failed something like coloring within the lines, like happened when I was four but was gaslit about eternally only after my mom died. Only after my mom died did that fantasy I made up entirely become something I spoke about, the asshole I am.

...oh sorry. I was just thinking about my last post where I explained the core of what makes me divergent, in the absract. The gall of me putting that into concrete, objective terms of things that happened to me. But, fuck. What would Captain Picard do? Well, we can tell by the start of season four that he would love his family, even if he didn't get to directly see the whole of them. It was the specific moments that count.

...do you know what an "oust" is? This is something the Illuminati taught me how to use. This is a facetious use of speech to determine the intent of another person. Y'know, I presented myself to my father as someone desperate for money some times. As a result, my objectively superior father decided...I was less than human and thus deserved to never be spoken with again...

But he used the words "I love you." He would write these three, singular, empty words after a paragraph of telling me how useless I was before regaling me with a poem he created that he presented as proof that anyone can write the things I do. This poem was four short lines about my childhood that ended with the rhyme "trash can." It hurt. It still hurts and is a reason I drink. My father thinks I'm less than dirt.

As such, I do ask my lord why I am

The peculiar soul thats so damned

Did my mom dying about age nine

Determine how far from the divine

I did fall from, or did my dad' roots

Kick me farther in his fckn cahoots

With his childish emotions gained

From his mother to drive he insane

Because he tells me my mom crazy

But forgive me, my memory b hazy

Yet be it not my dad's furious hand

That smash all mom made on land

I don't remember a past accurately

But I recall th hands came onto me

'Don't resist' he did say as he anger

Then throws me away 2 b stranger

I forgive him, as I know I shall see

His ass in Heaven, but to him'll be

Most deserving Hell 1 b slammed