I don’t remember being abused when I was a kid. Lately, I don’t remember much of anything, so that’s not surprising. Booze kills the real memories, and the drugs invent new ones. Even if I did remember my dad beating me senseless, or being raped by an uncle, there’s no way to know if it really happened.

This chick however, she definitely remembers. I’ve been on the receiving end of enough crying blow jobs to recognize the pattern. Usually it’s best to let them finish—the crying and the blowing—otherwise it just gets awkward. If this were a good time to talk about repressed daddy issues, Oprah would have naked dudes on her show for these messed up chicks to blow. Since she doesn’t, I’m guessing this isn’t the time. Which works for me, because I’d much rather have the blow job than a conversation.

I’m not a total jerk, I’ll offer to give her a hug afterward, and what’s left of the Jack. Hopefully she’ll decline both and just run into the bathroom. That should give me time to find my pants and get out of here.