I’m not your father because you don’t exist. Nor does your mother. She’s a dream. “She walks in beauty, like the night, of cloudless climes and starry skies…” (Even Byron can’t do her justice…)
Why am I writing to a fictional son? Because, in the end, apparently a man wants a legacy. After all, that’s why I’m here. In a cold dessert, with a flashlight in my mouth, trying to ignore Jazzman masturbating (I’ll tell you about that later; it’s cool, we all do it.)
So for now, I’ll pretend I have what keeps the others going. I’m not one to fantasize about such things but war brings out something in a man. A need to leave behind life instead of death. Before I lose that, here are Aiden Hale’s Life Lessons to His Fictional Son in no particular order:
1. I’d be lying if I said I never snuggled with a dude. If you’re freezing, do it (things shrink, perfectly normal).
2. Pictures of tits above your bed are tacky. Case in point, Jazzman. Don’t do it.
3. The rules with sex are (1) she says yes; (2) you use a condom (3) she goes first (easy to tell, I’ll explain later); (4) don’t be your father.
4. Fall in love. It has evaded me… until your mother, that is. But I imagine it feels tremendous given the gaga-look Marshall gets over Jasmine.