Surprisingly, my father was the worst when it came to our hair. Almost every time I came home my first year of college, my father begged me to get a perm even though I decided to never get one again. I was constantly told that my hair was ugly. That it was too wild.
I like to fuck. Not have sex or make love or whatever else cliché Nicholas Sparks and obnoxious writers and hopeless romantics call it. I like to fuck. F-U-C-K.
Antidepressants lie. They tell you that they will help. But they leave out the part about wearing off, about building up tolerance. They convince you that you are all better. So better that you don’t need them. But you do need them. And you hate yourself for it.
People get annoyed with me for talking about my niece so much. I will bring her up in almost every conversation I have. I will show her pictures thousands of times even to friends who had already seen them before. But I will do anything for her. Because unlike me she has to grow up without a father.
So often American (white) liberals think that they should get a pat on the back for knowing something about another culture, for not being racist or prejudice.