Happy Epic Day! Douchey Dad answered my e-mail. In all sincerity, this seems to be the best we can do, but it doesn't feel like enough. At the same time, I don't really feel like acting like a mom at a birthday party and being all "Ok, now G, what do we say? Yes, that's right? Thank you, and you have a nice day, too...wow, somebody got *two stars* closer on their Human Relations chart today...pretty special. You're only nine away from that seaweed colonic...if you took your daughter out to dinner, you could get 5....okay, well, I guess it is a Process." And, no, I'm not kidding as much as I wish--when I was in grade school, I thought everyone's dad made colonic appointments. I'm surprised I ever got to go to any of my friends' houses, ever, and not just because of their doorways. In college, people found out about that and were like "That must have been rough, you in a chair and your dad had cancer," and it was, like, "No, he was afraid he *could get* cancer (Because they found it in his grandma when she was already 85 and evil as hell. I'm really not a fatalist, but something *does* catch up with everyone eventually.)