"You remind me of my father."

Last night, one of my roommate's friends uttered those dread words, not once, but TWICE, whilst we were conversing. She said this like it wasn't, oh, I dunno, totally effed up. She giggled each time; it was the kind of giggle that makes paint peel from walls and causes dogs to form into packs.

O.K. now, people: what the hell is it about me that reminds you of your fathers? I mean, other than the fact that I am porking all y'alls moms. Go ahead! Tell me! I swear I won't be offended!

This much I know is true. At least once a month SOMEONE I know tells me that I remind them of their father. Fortunately, none of these people have been people I have dated, because then I would have to hang myself. But nonetheless, I have no idea what's going on. I mean, I have never:

*Spoiled your Christmas morning by being drunk and urinating on myself whilst trying in vain to light a moist cigarillo.

*Threatened you with "the strap" if you didn't get good grades.

*Stuck my finger into a cupcake you really really wanted so that you would refuse to eat it, thus allowing me to fill my belly with the golden goodness (OK, so that happened to ME, not you.)

*Killed a nun and then told you that if you told anyone, I'd kill your pet kitten, too.

*Built a rickety "playhouse" in your backyard over that Native American burial site, allowing all of the neighborhood children to contract tetanus because it was constructed whilst I was high on glue and didn't hammer all of the nails in.

So, why do I remind you of your dad? WHY? Because I am old before my time?

Sigh.

Last night I had a dream wherein I lived out one of my ultimate fantasies. No, nothing X-rated. So, I am in a hazy bar filled with burly bikers, all of whom seem to be engrossed in getting high, trading women for booze and eating nachos. I walk in and they all stare at me like I am wearing a tutu. Maybe I WAS wearing a tutu; I didn't look down. Plus, my tutu is at the dry-cleaners. Anyway, so one man walks up to me and sits down next to me as I cradle my bottle of beer and tells me that "my kind" isn't allowed in his bar. I was like, "What 'kind' am I?" He's like, "You know, your kind." So I slammed my beer and took the neck of the bottle into my manly hands and busted the base of the bottle on the bar. Then I took the neck and the jagged remains of the base and I brandished it menacingly in the biker's face. I then told him that he'd have to drag my limp, battered carcass out before I would leave. He looked at me like I was Charles Manson's lovechild with John Wayne Gacy and got up and left.

What a girl.

Anyway, I am interested to know why it is I remind you of your father, if I do at all. After I read each post, I will take a shot of the Mexican tequila I have in my cupboard; there is a goat on the bottle. Tequila, incidentally, that my father brought home to the US for me from South 'a the Bawdah. See? I bet YOUR dad doesn't give you Latin American liquor.

Have a good one, Bloomington.

Dom