I Don't Like What You've Got Me Hanging From.

The last few days have been spent fussing and worrying over the imminent arrival of my father. His tenure in Brazil has come to an end, and I’ve seen photos of a farewell that was recently thrown for him during the week of his 58th birthday. The nail was hit into the head when my uncle was cleaning the house fervently on Friday, in anticipation of my father’s return to Kuala Lumpur on Saturday morning. It was inevitable: the career diplomat coming home after over 20 years in service. He’d already told me about how much time he had sacrificed for his country; he didn’t want to waste any more of his years working. Which is all fine and good, but I’ve been wondering exactly where my father is at this moment.

He hasn’t returned from Brazil, and I don’t think that he can overstay his welcome there. A simple phone call might do the trick, but I don’t really want to call the Embassy and ask for him. He might’ve already packed up and left for parts unknown. If my dad was being mysterious the first time around, now he’s just downright AWOL. My uncle said that the hearing between my parents had been postponed yet again to mid-January, meaning that daddy dearest would probably return in December or January itself.

I shall wait for His Bluntless to return and disown me. Here’s a picture of my dad during his farewell. He looks short. And Japanese. The gentleman on the right is...Ambassador Pedro Motta Pinto Coelho (Google has his name translated to “Peter Motta Young Chicken rabbit”), the Director of the Department of Africa. And the lady on the left is my stepmother apparent (if things work out that way). I love my father, but that doesn’t mean that I have to like the choices that he makes. Especially when they’re wrong ones.

And here’s another picture of the three:

My father has his work cut out for him now. Even though he’s retired and missing.