So in efforts to rethink life, I spent today reorganizing me whole life in pieces. After giving up the apartment organization, I decided to go through the pictures throughout boxes in my closet. Weirdly, I saw this one as one of the first, and needless to say, I started balling like a 4 year-old. Why? Sadly, this is the only time in my life I can remember my dad standing up and attempting to know his only daughter.

Looking back, this trip (I think I was 15 or so) will probably be the closest my dad will ever be to me. Taking me to San Fransisco so I could see where I actually belong in the world, and actually exploring my hippie, art freak world. 3 days of zero fighting, and actually showing one another that we’re not so different. I remember going through endless art galleries and street art, and him confiding in me he used to want to be an artist as well. Later at night, spending dinner for three days in an Irish bar/restaurant listening to this amazing piano player (later resulting in my dad buying me every Elton John cd, thus resulting in a bad addiction). That vacation could of, should of, would of been the new beginning of our relationship.

Sadly, things have just ended worse as these past few years have gone by. Sometimes, I see glimpse of this dad I knew in San Fran, but in the end, he’s still the distant father to me.