I’ve been a cryptozoologist for sixteen years and my journeys have taken me all over the world in search of the elusive, mythical, existing monkey-man-beast of lore. From the Chinese forests of Hubei to the Himalayan Mountains, I have hunted the creature known as Bigfoot, enduring the extremes of Mother Nature, the arrogance of man, and also interns who don’t know what they’re getting into but then do and realize it’s not for them. Alas, we can’t all be hunters, and we all can’t the unconditional approval of fathers because that’s what they’re supposed to do, which is why I am on a constant hunt for that, too.
When I was in the swamplands of Ochopee, Florida this past April, I waded through knee-deep muck and grime in 98 degree weather with 110% humidity, but all I could think about was the 0% that my father approved of me as a human being. So I soldiered on until I found a wet sop of land and set up my intricate Bigfoot-detection-gear to hopefully capture the presence of a creature that has eluded us for the past hundred years despite being at the most technologically advanced period in world history. The fact astounds me every time I think of it, but then it reminds me how my dad has accounts on all major social networking apps, yet refuses to interact with me. It is ironic how I am so available, yet undesired, and Bigfoot is so desired, yet unavailable. If only I could turn those tables, like Adele.
Something about me must be the reason for the absence of his love and his advice throughout the entirety of my life, but I can’t figure out what it is. I moved out when I was 18, I never ask him for money because I’m self-employed, and I’ve never voted for a Democrat. Heck, I only call him once every two or three weeks, which is the natural average for a father and son living in America. And do you know how hard it is to call that often when he keeps changing his number? It’s not that hard with the internet and Switchboard and everything. But it is annoying.
I almost want to give up at this point. I mean, most of my time is already devoted to following Bigfoot clues, recording audio of wind blowing through the trees at night, and attempting to visually identify and then digitally capture Bigfoot — a creature I admittedly have never seen. Despite this, something inside me just knows it’s out there, just like the love and acceptance of the man who went halfsies on creating me, then fully opted out of doing everything else. My only hope now is that when I see him tomorrow at the grave site of my mother who died giving birth to me, I’ll watch from 200 yards out through my Bigfootnoculars for a nod, a wink, or a tear, and I can pretend that they were for me.