25.nyc.myoutlet.
My grandmother used to tell me that Carly Simon was really singing about daddy, but left the subject of the song a mystery because no one would give two shits about that drunken, blue-blooded asshole. At six years old, I yearned to be heard, understood, and most of all, right. I explained to her that Carly could not actually be singing about daddy because he didn’t have a race horse and would never be could dead in an apricot colored scarf. She would examine me through her green eyes, at that point two years shy of the cataracts I would come to know, and tell me that the day I realized that daddy was no good, she’d start to love me.
