#whos your daddy

[roriprincess]

Cheat on your girlfriend with me, she will never be as hot or skinny as me

[theredch3rry]

GiGGS should play who’s your daddy.

[yourfaveatsglass]

The baby from Who's Your Daddy eats glass.

The baby from who's your daddy eats glass

[brokebuckmt]

Mack hazing the new buck

[pegand0ll]

[imagine-darksiders]

You're a danger to your surroundings. But the surroundings is you.

Day in the life of meeee <3

[jaladwolf]

Okay this just popped into my head randomly and I have to say it or gonna be stuck in my brain forever…

So y’all know the game Who’s your Daddy? If you don’t go search it up, it’s absolutely hilarious and insane.

Tell me why I imagined the AGA gang playing that game. I literally can imagine them playing it and it going wrong in all of the most hilarious ways possible…

[the-bite-of-87-lol]

I've been playing overwatch with my friend for 6 hrs and 42 minutes, and we played a custom game "1 dad, 11 kids"

The greatest shit of my life

[drug-called-fangirling]

wanted to share the gorgeous pics that i took of the Papas <3 so slay

[gramarobin]

[nellarw95]

Happy Birthday Justin 🥳🎂🎈🎁🎉

Justin Tyler Berfield

February 25,1986

Buon Compleanno 🥳🎂🎈🎁🎉

25 Febbraio 1986

[mag-side]

Visualization of my favorite Jerma stream

[brokebuckmt]

Sean and Dom jump-in the new boy

[heckinconfusedparade]

Imagine the Tails Squad making a YouTube Channel. Like TailsTube

They’re all videos of quick beginners tutorials on coding and builds, info about their worlds and the differences, or full on rants on random subjects meant for certain audiences.

Sometimes they play games together. Nothing goes right. Most of them have decided to fuck with the others instead of finishing the game.

They like prop hunt and Who’s Your Daddy

[randgugotur-6]

"Who's Your Daddy" ?

[rylredrants]

Grief for Your Villian

When the villain in your story dies…

This is such a complicated kind of grief. My villain was JT, my first husband and the father of my only child. Last summer, he died by suicide.

It had been over a decade since we had any contact at all. He was one of only two exes that I’d call a “bad ex,” to the point that I had somewhat recently looked him up on social media just to be sure he was blocked on all of my accounts.

In that search, I found a podcast he was doing because, of course, he was. (Cue the “Stop Giving Men Microphones song.) He displayed the same arrogance and self-righteous indignation with a venomous voice and deep scowl as he sat alongside a redheaded woman who seemed to fluctuate between feeding his ego and humoring his outbursts.

When my daughter agreed to let me come to his memorial… we’d had our own estrangement of sorts, but this was the first step in reconciling that we took…  I walked in expecting that I’d been painted as a villain in his story, and I was prepared to be treated as such when I met the redhead, one of his girlfriends. Instead, she greeted me warmly and would later send me a Facebook friend request, as did his other girlfriends.

In connecting with them I learned that he told people at least two things about “his 2nd wife.” I looked like Gillian Anderson, and I was a writer.

I was a writer.

That’s something I used to identify as despite my minimal publication. It was so much a part of my identity, but somewhere along the line, I’d given that up. I never stopped writing, but I gave up the idea that I was a writer.

I was just another burned-out, former gifted child who couldn’t stop screaming into the void of various social media and blogging platforms. But learning that others knew me as a writer (who looked like Gillian Anderson!) made more of an impact than I expected… almost like a bizarre parting gift. He gave me back that part of myself.

But that gift is shelved alongside all the hurtful things he said and did when I was still forming my identity. When he said to me “If you get fat, I’ll leave you,” I was only 17.

And at 19, when I did balloon up in a post-partum cloud of cannabis smoke, he didn’t leave me. Instead, he cheated on me with our roommate in our home for nearly a year. She was a natural redhead but taller, thinner, and with bigger boobs than I developed during pregnancy.

Their denial of the affair when my Spidey senses started pinging was textbook gaslighting. They convinced me that I was crazy and nothing was going on between them. And I believed it because I had to. I had a small child, no family support, and nothing of my own.

The timing of JT’s suicide was almost comedic.

The day he put his loaded shotgun on the porch and hung himself by a pullup bar was the same day that my mother casually dropped the bomb that the man who raised me wasn’t actually my father. Information that came to light because my daughter had doubts about her own paternity, ordered 23AndMe, and then saw a familiar name on her report.

JT had been the embodiment of my ‘daddy issues’ with his resemblance to the man who raised me. The day he died was the day I learned that my bio dad was part of a ‘chosen family’ I’d known my entire life. Heavy upon heavy upon heavy there.

So much complicated grief raining down on me at once, and here I am, months later, still trying to get a handle on all of it.

I’m finding myself sobbing into my keyboard while sitting in on suicide prevention trainings for my job and flowing in and out of this overwhelming grief while numbing myself out every night. The more I learn, the more I just want to be stupid and not think at all.

Knowing about the abuse JT survived and how it impacted who he was doesn’t take away the damage he did to me. Knowing that he didn’t speak ill of me doesn’t change the fact that he was absolutely the villain in my story, and I’m not going to try to pretend otherwise.

We were young… I still had a provisional driver’s license when I met JT and was barely old enough to buy a beer when we finally separated for good. That doesn’t excuse how we treated each other, and I said as much at his memorial.

All I can do is own my part of it and try to do better… and I have. It took me two more divorces to get to where I am today. But today I was able to recognize that I woke up dysregulated, told my husband what was going on, how he could help and he did. And then I got on with my work day.

I’m finally not afraid that if I get fat my husband will leave me.

I’m not afraid of not being pretty enough, sexy enough, fuckable enough… I’m not afraid of being too much, either. On my dysregulated days, when I find myself crying too much, eating too much, feeling like too much… my husband makes sure I know that it’s not too much for him.

I can be exactly who I am, and I’m safe. I’m loved. I’m HOME.

I’m still trying to undo the damage that was done by the villains in my story. That doesn’t mean I’m ignoring the humanity of the people who hurt me or that their deaths don’t (and won’t) take me right back to the times in life when they were so important to me. It’s a complicated grief to see them leave the world and the rest of the things they left behind.

Maybe there’s a way to reconcile this with the villains still walking the earth. But maybe this is just a first draft of a process I’ll have to go through again when my other villains pass.

(Initially written Feb, 2024)