This is the story that never ends: Trois
Having recently received some flak from a family member about something wholly innocuous written, I feel pretty limited at this point of the story, for this is the best part. The crème filling to the Cadbury egg if you will, but sadly you will not be partaking in much of the crème. Most especially since my father has recently discovered ‘the Google’ and this little internet party over here and has subsequently decided to inform his brother and sister in law of my blog (Or website or internet thingy or whatever those crazy kids are calling it these days). When he told me this I rolled my eyes and he questioned why. “Because it’s weird.” He replied; “I told you so.” Touché (Heather: -10; Father: 233).
Though admitting my father correct is a rare occurrence, it is not the crux of this story, and as wholly entertaining as it is, it’s not something that can be written here. Thing is that my older brothers are considerably older than G and I. They were also raised in Long Island quite close to my father’s side of the family. Their mother still lives out there as well. So growing up they were often around my cousins etc. At my grandfather’s funeral, there were people there who I had last seen in 1989. It was pretty much me and G, sitting together listening to my cousin’s and other family members having these vivid recollections of the time that they spent with my grandfather. That is not to say that I haven’t spent time with him or anything like that, but they just had more. My last visit with him was December 23rd. He was a patient at an assisted living community, due to alzheimers and a stroke he had recently had. He asked about the Giants and my golf game, which only proved to me that we were very much related. The previous visit with him was years ago in Fresno, in which he explained algebra to me. So there are memories, not a million and one of them, but they’re there.
Actually I should say that it was just G and me sitting there until Ty decided to show up out of nowhere; thus turning the three of us into an uncontrollable bunch of heathens who demanded alcohol and to be taken to Carnegie Deli immediately. Instead we got Red Lobster, an institution that I had previously ridiculed because it’s not the Oceanaire Seafood Room. But the Oceanaire Seafood Room doesn’t have cheddar cheese biscuits. You also can’t question your waitress’ ethnicity there (for the record she was Puerto Rican not Mexican), or be obnoxious and you probably can’t say “kiss my ass” or “I’m going to fuck his shit up” in the parking lot.
Next up: There’s a strong possibility that I may never be Aree Song.