I am not the holiday inn...

This is a brief interlude from the story of the ship to post some outrageous news: I am not the holiday inn.

Today my wonderful father calls me at work and asks to stay with me for the next three days as something, as usual, has fucked up his plans and he has no place to live for the next month. Now I love my father, don't get the wrong idea, but this was the last straw. Considering the multitude of times this man has let me down, left me to sleep the night on a park bench, told me whilest drunk to go fuck myself, borrowed money and never paid it back and other surly activities, riddle me just what incentive would I have to go any further out of my way for him? Obviously he is broke, and did not suggest how he planned to eat/shower/sleep/be merry during said three days, which I'm sure would involve him ordering me to buy him beer for his troubles or allowing him to smoke in my car, which I highly disapprove of. Inevitably 3 days would turn into 3 weeks and so on and so forth...

Long story short: I said no. It was the second hardest thing I've ever done with him (the first was standing up for myself earlier this year after the "go fuck yourself" incident). I felt like a monster and I obsessed about the image of him sleeping in the street somewhere and it's snowing and he has yet another stroke and it's my fault.

It's not my fault. I'm not the Holiday Inn, and that's final. I earn my own dollahs to reside at the Fortress of Smoothitude and for once, I'm entitled not to share, not even a little bit.