User blog:MoistSquelch/Let's be honest here...

The main reason this account exists is so I can use the name MoistSquelch. It's a name that makes me laugh and hopefully knowing more people will see it will encourage me to write.

But I'm also here for my dad. My dad loved writing weird, weird stuff, and I really think he'd appreciate knowing that I'm following in his footsteps. He had a wild mind and an aesthetic that was truly one of a kind. The old man was truly an artist, not only with words both written and spoken, but also with wires. That guy could take a pile of scraps and wires and trash and twist them into something amazing. Dad drew a lot too, and while his pictures were not classically beautiful, the ideas had such a dirty charm to them that you couldn't help but to love them.

Most importantly, he loved us. Whenever I was feeling bad about a piece of art, he was there backing me up. When my mom gave me a tough time and stopped talking with me, he did what he could to support me in her place. He wasn't by any means perfect; hell, he was as far from perfect as can be. But we loved his imperfections, his confidence, his strong sense of empathy, his voice. My brothers and I teased him near constantly, but always from a place of affection.

Sometimes I'll get some good news or just need some advice, and my first instinct is still to reach for the phone. The muscle memory is still there, even if he's dropped out of my "Frequently Contacted" and his phone is long out of service. Even if I know he's not going to pick up in my mind, my heart is naive and expects him to answer with his gravelly, smokers voice.

"Hey I wuz gonna call ya, I got the day off. What's goin' on over there?"

The calls were so short and followed the same script every time, but I always loved talking to him anyway. I can still remember his voice, but I fear the day it fades from memory.

It's been a little over four months since he sent his last message, a simple "goodnight, I love you <3". I never got to reply to him, tell him that I love him too, but he knew that we loved him.

Sleep well, Dad. I'll talk to you later.