I remember the first time I threatened my dad that I was gonna run away. I was 12.
I had just gotten disciplined for something I (honestly) didn't do. I ran into my room, packed a bag of clothes, grabbed my life's savings, a pack of smokes I had hidden, a porn magazine and bolted for the door. I didn't make it very far.
Hours later, my dad pulled up infront of the arcade I always retreated to and waited patiently for me to come out. When I ran out of quarters, my little figers got stiff, and I stared to get hungry, I considered going back home. I left the arcade, walked up to the passenger car door, hopped in, and returned home. This usually happened once a week.
I guess there isn't a manual on how to be a son; I guess there isn't a manual on how to be a father either.
2:20 a.m. - 2010-07-08
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