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05-14-03 - 3:15 p.m. If it didn't piss me off, this would amuse the hell out of me. See, apparently when he wasn't raping me or neglecting my older brother, my dear sweet father volunteered and made large contributions to a local youth charity. How sweet of him. I had no idea he was such a saint. Now, I guess, two years after his death, they've decided to honor him by dedicating a basketball court on one of their halfway houses. It's just a regular outdoor court, but his name will be on a fancy plaque. And I've been invited to the grand soiree unveiling this wonderful new establishment! "Won't you please join us for a night of shared memories?" It's in a few weeks. Brian's going, too. I'll share some memories, alright. Oh yes, and there are so many fond ones to choose from. Y'know, I even have a basketball memory. See, cuz I played for a few years. And I remember, the only game of mine he ever came to watch, I missed a key shot, pretty much costing my team the game. And he saw it, and I don't know if someone said something to him or what, but he got angry, dragged me outside by my ponytail, and tripped me the second we were outside. Then he slammed me against the building (a lovely brick job) and yelled at me for embarrassing him in front of "everyone," and broke my nose against the brick. Which, at the doctor's office, was easily explained. Those Dawson kids sure do play hard, don't they?
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