Irony?

Father's Day. Two days prior, an i.o.u. for rent. Ok, at least its on his mind. On Father's Day, nothing. I come home, a terrific card and cologne. He comes in from work, of course I thank him. I was genuinely touched.

1:41 this am, the 3 year anniversary of Cunt's death, I go downstairs to piss. He's up, having come in from working the night. I see he has a can, of 14 ounce Natty Lite.

I tell him he has until 6 am to be gone. That he has a week to get his shit tight or never return. I tell him he's lucky-that I'm sure he hadn't been to a meeting (he hadn't in 3 days) didn't have a sponsor (didn't) not attend outpatient in over a week. When he tried the "at least I'm not doing heroin" bullshit, I tell him he's back with open arms if he gets ANYONE from his counselor to a 12 step member, to write a note saying beer's ok, ESPECIALLY when he remembers the rules of his life in my house post-rehab.

He's thus, homeless for a week.

Wonder if he remembers the meaning of today's date.

I write this on a computer in the library. Guess who's a few computers away.

Irony?????