Dad.

(I’ll have long, blonde, curly hair again one day.)

I think my dad has been one of my best friends my whole life, and I’ve just now realized that. I turn to him for advice, he listens to me when I spit venom about the millions of things I’m angry about, and he’s never judged a thing I’ve done. Granted, I haven’t really done anything – and he does more than me! – but still. Ok, wait. Maybe he judged a little when I told him I screamed like a tween at the Backstreet Boys concert I went to a few months ago. I’ll let that one slide, though.

When I quit school and couldn’t keep myself at a job for more than a week, he never stopped believing in me. He never treated me as a disappointment or a failure – which I never was. And when I got my shit half-together (I still don’t work!) and decided to return to school, he was the proudest of proud that ever prouded.

When my dick of a stepdad, more or less, kicked me out of the house (how dare I keep food in my room! And steal mother’s socks! I was such an asshole, right?!), my dad was there to take me in. I didn’t even have to ask. And when I arrived at his door, car full of my life, he hugged me, helped me unpack, and went extreme amounts of food shopping.

When I’d broken up with my live-in boyfriend of three years and needed a place to go, my dad offered me a spot in his then teensy-tiny-little home. I ended up being “permitted” to move back to mom’s, but the offer was still there. And I could tell he was a little sad when I didn’t move in.

During all of these “lost weekends” of mine (I call them this because everything is a blur and a fog, and I can’t quite remember exactly what happened), my dad never stopped being on my side. He knew I was a spectacular person, despite losing my way in life. And when I thought he’d be angry about my tattoo, he surprised me by saying – upon seeing it – “You’re pretty badass!” and proceeding to call all of his friends to tell them about my tiger.

I don’t know that my dad ever truly recovered from his divorce from my mom and, essentially, his daughters. We saw him every other weekend and on certain holidays, but as we got older, those visits were less and less (working at McDonald’s really cuts in to one’s schedule). When I’d only had enough money to make him a Christmas present – my sisters and I took photobooth pictures when all of us saw Night at the Museum; I put them together and wrote the words “Dads know everything.” (my dad’s mantra) at the bottom, then framed it – he cried at what I’d given him. He was just so happy to have something with his three girls, he shoved everything off of a shelf to make room for only the picture. Then we all cried and hugged, obviously.

He’s the one who started my love for musicals. He’s the reason I fall asleep at concerts – he’s been in a band for most of his life, and, as a baby, I would fall asleep at his band practices. He’s the reason I’m funny and like to write. And he’s most likely the reason I haven’t given up on my life. Those lost weekends were a pretty tough time, and it was nice knowing there was at least one person in my corner when I was feeling extremely down in the dumps and utterly alone.

I may not agree with some of his – ahem – personal choices, I’ll say, but he continues to be the greatest dad I’ve ever had. He likes Scrubs. And he makes me watch Rush concerts when I visit him. And he likes Ted Leo (I think? I burned him those CDs!). And he wants me to be Tina Fey, too. And he tried to teach me drums that one time (how is it that a drummer’s daughter has no rhythm?).

I just want things to work out for him. I’m so happy he’s getting himself back into shape. I’m so happy he gets to see my littlest (technically, half-)sister all of the time. I’m so happy he’s found another band to play in. I’m so happy he doesn’t live in that teensy-tiny-little home anymore, and does live only fifteen or so minutes from me. I’m so happy that things are working on my end of life, so maybe I can buy him a mansion and his very own Neil Peart-type drumset, you know, when I’m rich. I’m so happy to have him, in general.

Seriously, though, my dad rules and your dad drools.