I'm a bastard. I just realized it as I was washing the hair tonic off my hands. Christ almighty, is that my problem? I can only wonder. I don't know any other bastards. In that sense, I suppose I've risen above my station. There must be lots of bastards out there. I thought of it because I just watched a documentary on PBS about a Korean woman who was basically sold to an orphanage so that she could be adopted by an American couple. She's having a hard time reconciling of course. She feels alienated from her white parents. (Sooo white. And Sooo alien they are.) And yet, she can't hang with the Korean folks. Bummer. But at least she's going for it. It made me think about getting my shit on with my bio-parents. Primarily ol' Richard Britt down there in Florida. He's probably gonna die soon if he hasn't yet. Forget about Michelle Hafner up in Seattle. She's a friggin basket case and I've given her more than enough chances. Dick down in Florida accepted and then refused to reply to a certified letter asking for his help in providing genetic and hereditary information to his bastard son -- me. "Fuck that bastard", he probably said (in a southern accent).
Wait..wait.....

From: "Grahn, Johan"
To: "Positive Atheism" [editor@positiveatheism.org]
Subject: Yes, yes I know. I'm a bastard!
Date: Tuesday, October 24, 2000 8:25 AM

Cliff!

How are you? I hope everything is alright with you.
I have a tiny, little, insignificant correction to 
make with regards to your response to: "Four 
questions from a High-School Teacher." ......

Ok, I can go on now. What I was thinking was that I'd just give that old guy a call and yeah, my brothers and sisters would probably want to meet me and, what do I wear, and there's always an awkward moment when you meet but then it's all beautiful and yadda yadda and then I was like, "There's no way he's gonna want a BASTARD showing up on his doorstep." But before you go feelin sorry for me, just ask yourself, "Wouldn't it be kinda cool to be a bastard?" To show up and go, "Hey Pa! I'm yer bastard son!" You gotta admit it'd be funny for a second.

I don't think I can write about being a bastard any more because the woman who's sitting behind me at the laundromat has the ability to look over my shoulder as I type. And even though I'm posting this on the Internet where anyone can see it, I still don't want someone reading it when I type it. I need a little bit of privacy for the creative process to occur.