Thomas Wictor

Today I was told of another massive flaw in my Website. It means I was lied to yet again. Corners were cut and I was patted on the head, told, “Yes-yes-yes. Good little Tommy. Bye-bye,” and sent on my way after the final payment was made.

That’s okay. My publicists are helping me overcome this latest act of blatant dishonesty.

My message to the world: Do your worst. I can take it. On the list of things I care about, you know what’s at the bottom? Scuttling little twerps who lie and snicker and revel in being trivial bastards. Excellent. While you turn yourselves into rodents, I continue my upward trajectory. I’m immune to your predations now. My tragic, sinful, dead father told me one thing of value:

“There’s always a workaround.”

My workaround is refusing to give up. I don’t care if “incorrect promises” have become the norm. You can party in your rodent-world, bragging to all the other vermin about how spectacularly you ripped me off. Fine. I was among you for ten years. You’re still right where you were when I bailed on you, while I’ve become everything I ever wanted to be.

Another reason your rat-assaults don’t bother me is I prioritize. A few minutes ago I saw this very surreal announcement in the local paper.

Dad didn’t have an obituary. He left specific instructions that we not write one. We now realize it was his desperate attempt to deny his mortality.

After Mom died on October 13, 2013, I looked through her things for hours each day. Mom and I didn’t get along until the last three years of her life. I’d come to accept our non-relationship without bitterness. Some parents have a favorite child, and others have a child they just don’t like. Parents are human beings. They have great failings.

When I say I’d come to accept my mother’s antipathy toward me without bitterness, it sounds a little glib. Well, it took me decades. I had to let go of the idea that I could be close to my mother. Once I’d given up, we got along better.

So after Mom died, I searched and searched through her effects. And I found the answer to why she never liked me.

I thought that my past couldn’t get any worse. How wrong I was. What I learned casts a completely different, much more hideous light on my existence. But it explains everything. Knowledge—even horrible knowledge—is power. I’m grateful that I discovered the real story. The only other person who knows it is Tim. We’ll take this to the grave. There isn’t a reason in the world to share it.

Here Mom and I are in 1963. Look at her body language: hunched, arms folded tightly, legs drawn up, and forced smile. Her reaction is based on what I represent, not who I am. The distance between us could never be closed.

Jesus Christ said to forgive sinners, but only if they repent. Forgiveness is a long process that requires genuine sorrow on the part of the evildoer. I never agreed with the idea of forgiving those who do terrible harm. Now I do, depending on the circumstances of the harming, if the harmed wants to forgive, and if the criminal is truly sorry.

It’s not automatic forgiveness, Mr. Fake Advocate. You miserable butthole. I can’t believe I ever admired you. And now I have my suspicions about why you’re in the field you’re in.

Nobody’s under any obligation to forgive. I forgave because I chose to. To this day I don’t regret my decision. The next person who tells me I did the wrong thing, I’m going to punch you in the mouth. That’s a promise. Mind your own business. Nobody’s forcing you to read my posts.

I don’t forgive the harming of my mother. It’s up to her whether or not to forgive. I understand, but I don’t forgive. The only one with the power to forgive is the harmed. The rest of us are onlookers who should shut up.

The great irony is that I became my mother’s closest confidant and friend. That means she was finally able to see me as an individual, separate from our past.

One of my favorite singers is Stan Ridgway. I love his voice, his phrasing, and his lyrics. The first time I heard this song, it unaccountably moved me.

Now I see it as what my mother sang to me in the last three years of her life. It’s so strange that of all the people on earth, I was the one who alleviated the loneliness she surely felt, giving her a measure of peace.

As we reached the end of the line, Mom was unable to throw it all off and simply accept, the way I did. If she’d evened up with me, she might still be alive. Still, our improved relationship was a way for her to atone, as much as she was able. When she got sick, I began kissing her when I left for the day. She’d never let me do that.

I’m sorry, Mom. It wasn’t your fault. Actually, in a lot of ways, it’s not any one person’s fault. It is, but it isn’t. I’m sure you know what I mean. It’s the group that does the damage. You knew that insitnctively, which is why you rebelled against all groups. I wish everything could’ve been different for you.

Anyway, I took this photo for you last night. Best sunset in ages. Looks totally fake, doesn’t it, like Maxfield Parrish flew through the evening sky with buckets of paint and his brushes?

Take care. I’ll see you soon.