What I can't seem to do is live worth a damn. One day a call will come, that one of my parents is dying. Those disappointed people, with me for a son. Every parent fears a disabled child, someone they'll be obliged to, an end to their plans. When I went wrong, years passed before it sunk in. Before they knew for sure what I was, before they'd ever tell me, before they hung their heads for me, before they wished I never was.

All my starts, my proclamations of intent, the times I shook my father's hand and set out to take on the world. All the times I stumbled back, my ass in my hands, spiraling down. I've given up trying, and now torture myself for it. Quitter. The names, all day.

I'm disabled for a reason. They sent me checks like there's hope for me. Or do they send me checks to keep me dead? I check the mail every day to see if they have reconsidered it. It's been a nice reprieve.

One day the phone will ring and my life will be over. It's been over for decades. You live, I'll wait.