rome, roman architecture

For much of the month of August, I’ve been writing about my father. He loves to be the center of attention, so he mostly doesn’t mind.

But this week, I’ve come to realize that recording these stories is about more than writing a daily blog post that’s worth a read. I know the regret behind some of these stories. The roads not taken. Recording them is a way of constantly challenging myself to live life.

Because we all inherit things from our parents. I suppose at my age it’s natural to look in the mirror and screech my face is becoming a bulldog JUST LIKE DAD!!

But, it’s more than that.

We all rue the day we realize we’ve become our parents. I think—just now, today—I read back over the volume of words on this blog………….

And, I stopped………….

And, I screamed……………

God help me! I’ve turned into Roy!

I am the person who never knows when to shut off the story-spigot. Who is so bereft of opportunities to perform, she took to accosting people online. Begging people to read her words. To—sheesh—telling some of the same stories again and again, because she can’t remember when, or even if, she relayed them in the first place.

The only things I’m missing are a penis and an extra 150 pounds………..please tell me my transformation will never be complete……………

What dastardly parental trait did you inherit?

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