Ealain

Well, my dad was watching the Super Bowl and my stepmom was enjoying the commercials. I read my book through the game and watched the commercials, up until half time was over (then I came in here to the computer).

One of the commercials was for Pepsi. In it, Justin Timberlake and some friends are sitting at a table in a restaurant. All of a sudden, Justin gets pulled into the street by a magnetic force. He’s dragged down the street, pulled through the air, has his crotch slammed into a mailbox — repeatedly, bangs into a cardoor, skids through the street on said cardoor, and is finally pulled into this girl’s backyard, while she is sipping on a Pepsi. Supposedly, by drinking Pepsi, you get “one step closer” to Justin.

What THEY want you to get from the commercial: If I drink Pepsi, Justin Timberlake will appear in front of me.

What I get out of the commercial: If I drink Pepsi, Justin Timberlake gets beat up.

GIMME SOME PEPSI!

Six years ago today you were born and six months later your dad, my brother, died. I met you once at his memorial. I only saw you for a moment. I heard you crying the whole time. That is all I know of you.

I know that you live in California so I looked up your mom’s name on the online white pages. I found a number that I think might be you; it’s in the same town that your dad died and my dad once told me that your mom’s parents lived there so I’m hoping that you are still living there. I tried calling but got voicemail: one of those electronic voices that don’t tell me whether it is you or not. I’ll try back later.

See, I never got to know your dad well. He was in the Air Force and traveled all over. I have three memories of him in my whole life. But what I knew of him, I loved. He was seventeen years older than me and he got the respect from me that you probably give your big brother. Complete adoration. I regret never knowing him better. That’s one reason I want to try to get in touch with you. I don’t want that to happen with us.

I’ve tried to imagine what you are like and what you look like. I imagine all different varients because I don’t know. I compare you to the other six year olds I know: Effie’s son Mick and Rissy’s daughter Emmy. They’re balls of energy zooming around, growing, and learning so much. That’s how I picture you.

I’ll try calling again tonight. I have it planned out. I’ll ask for your mom, and hopefully the phone number will be right. I’ll tell her who I am and why I’m calling. I’ll ask for her permission to know you, because I know how she feels about my father and that there is a good chance she’ll hang up the phone if she finds out I live with him now.

Sometimes I wonder if you know that I exist. I wonder how much you know about your dad: if your mom relives him by telling you stories or if it is a rough subject for her. I was only his half sister. I only met her once or twice. Maybe I wasn’t mentioned.

Either way, I hope someday you’ll know that I love you even without knowing you at all. Hopefully someday I’ll be able to love you, knowing everything about you.

I think it’s funny. As you get older, your memory changes and you forget things. My dad gets many email forwards from friends and whenever he gets one he likes, he reads it to us. A few months ago he read us one of them. Tonight, in the circle that is email forwarding, he got it again. He read it again. My stepmom and her mom listened again. They responded with the normal responses again. My dad, my stepmom, and my stepmom’s mom all did not remember ever hearing it before. Is that what we have to look forward to?

My father believes that anybody online who would want to talk to me has to be a sexual predator. I mean, cmon, who else would want to talk to me?

He asked me why I was up until 1am last night. Coding. Does he believe me? No.

Well, you were up last Tuesday night until 1am also; what is it with Tuesday nights?

I’m online every night, usually until I get tired unless I have class the next morning. No class Wednesdays. I don’t remember what I was working on last Tuesday night but it was one of my websites and I can’t tell you when I went to bed. Shows you how “important” it was; if it was, I would remember. If I was doing something wrong, it would have stuck in my mind.

Then he gives me that look. That smile. The “I know you better than that ha ha.”

Have I ever given him a reason to mistrust me? No. Why can’t he just freaking trust me? Believe that I’m not online talking to any person and that I don’t give my name, phone number, and address to any old person. It takes me a long time to trust someone online let alone give out my information. I’ve said a little more in the last year but thats because I’m 20 years old; I’m not some child. And I don’t just post my name, address, and phone number.

I’m not a child, so what business is it of his? I’ve never done anything, so why can’t he trust me?

Oh, that’s right, I’m sorry. I’m guilty until proven innocent. And no matter how much I do right or not do wrong, it’ll never prove me innocent. The internet is this big bad place and every person on it wants to track me down, rape me, and kill me and I’m going to just sit around and let them; the only time the damn internet is ok for him is when he wants me to make him a website. I freaking give up.