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By Root 333 0

I’m in the church bathroom cleaning what I can only describe as debris you’d scrape off the bottom of a lake in hell; she’s screaming, I’m gagging, my wife’s singing, and the babysitter had an attitude. I’m done. I don’t have anything left. Thursday’s Thanksgiving and I have absolutely nothing to be thankful for. Great. I just heard Lauren cry. Well, I’m not going in there. She’s just going to cry more when she sees me. Cry your eyes out, see if I care. Cry all night, see how it feels. Wait, that’s a different cry than I’ve heard before. Maybe I should go see what’s wrong. What am I saying? I guess I still have feelings for her. I’m a horrible dad. I’ve just been thinking about myself. She’s a baby. My baby. She doesn’t know what she’s doing. What’s wrong with me? Have some patience. I’m going to go check on my little girl.

November 23, 1998

1:29 a.m.

That little bitch. She baited me. She knew I’d be weak. I can’t take this anymore. I’m moving out.

December 26, 1998

9:36 p.m.

I’m still stuffed. We had Christmas dinner tonight at my mom’s. I actually had a good time. I spent all night with Brendy [Larry’s niece]. What a sweet little girl. We laughed and played peekaboo and laughed and played more peekaboo. It was great. I have to admit and I know this is going to sound weird—thank God no one but me will ever read this—but I felt like I was cheating. Is that weird? I mean, there’s nothing wrong with playing with my niece, but the whole time I felt dirty. I even kept overstressing that she was my niece. Everybody must’ve thought I was drunk. That’s a good idea. I should start drinking.

February 13, 1999

11:09 p.m.

Tomorrow’s Valentine’s Day and I could care less. Lauren will be seven months old and I don’t care. Hey look, she’s crawling. Big deal. Oh my God, she’s trying to form words. Genius. She’s eating solid foods. Don’t choke. She loves going to Gymboree. Whoop-de-fucking-doo.

June 1, 1999

10:30 p.m.

Angie and Lauren are in Minnesota visiting her family. Lauren still hates me. She doesn’t scream anymore. Now she jumps out of my arms when I try to hold her. That’s not embarrassing at all. But it’s cool. Got the house to myself. No writing job for me this year. I can’t stop being a smart-ass in my interviews. I almost got hired on Friends till I mentioned the closest they came to having someone of color on the show was when Ross had a monkey. Did nothing but watch daytime TV today in my underwear. I cannot get enough of Sally Jesse Raphael. People are so pathetic on that show, it’s great. I’m tired of porn. I should make some more popcorn. Lauren left her blankey. She needs it to fall asleep. It’s probably too late to call Minnesota. I’m gonna put on some porn.

July 13, 1999

7:23 p.m.

She’ll be a year old tomorrow and she still won’t return my calls to her. It’s like I don’t even exist. I’ve actually given up. It’s weird. I think I’m over it. I don’t even think about her that much anymore. Hmmm. Why did I write hmmm? I’ll give it one more day.

July 14, 1999

10:57 p.m.

Way back in the recesses of my mind I thought something special would happen today. Yeah, I’m the dad, yeah, I’m supposed to be giving her a gift, but I held out hope that maybe, just maybe, she might give me a gift today. Anything. A smile, a nod, a grin, anything. I foolishly tried picking her up to give her a kiss and she squirmed out of my arms. I thought it didn’t matter anymore but I was devastated. I tried to put on a good face but I was crying on the inside. Okay, the outside too. Last week, I took out the old pictures of her ultrasounds. We seemed so happy then. So many plans, so many dreams. Our bond seemed unbreakable in those innocent times. Angie’s calling. Talk to you later.

July 14, 1999

11:51 p.m.

Angie called me into Lauren’s room. She just said her first word: “Daddy.” You gotta be fucking kidding me. Daddy! She treats me like crap for an entire year and her first word is “Daddy”! Who does she think she’s talking to? Daddy? I get my heart ripped out of its hole for what seemed like forever and that little . . .