Sweating like a whore in church.

It's hot. Really, really fucking hot. I was all geared up for a scathing entry, ripping apart my ex and her family for a moment of ignorance and cruelty I've never forgiven, laying the framework for a more measured response in short story form. It'll have to wait, though. It's too hot to be negative.

I spent the day with my family, again, and I'm feeling inclined to write about them for the first time on this particular outlet. I'm lucky. I know this. My parents are loving and supportive, no matter how many bad decisions I make. My brother looks up to me with that fanatical devotion that only little brothers can generate. I love it.

My mom is nuts. She's a full on, bible-thumping, evangelizing Christian, but no one's perfect. Although she's blind in her faith and stubbornly follows the church even when she knows in her heart it's wrong, I hold no ill-will towards her spirituality. Yes, she tries to convert me every chance she gets, yes she refuses to acknowledge my cousin's lesbian relationship even as it enters it's 10th year, yes she votes Republican across the board in an effort to rid the world of gays and abortionists. The thing is, she lives it out. Every day, every thing she does, she does with the Christian ideal in mind. While I tend to believe Christian politics are medieval, and Christian rules a little too restrictive with not enough logic, I can certainly think of worse moral codes to dedicate your life to. She's compassionate, loving, kind, and selfless. She's everything I'm not, and she doesn't hate me for it. That's a rare combination, and she's a special woman.

My pops is quite the opposite. I'm more like him than I want to admit, usually. Stern, unequivocal, intelligent, and firm. He knows everything, and it's rare that we catch him out on something, all too frequently a little argument and a little research proves him nothing but correct. He's also fiercely loyal, decisive under pressure, and he would unhesitatingly kill or be killed to defend his family. He left my mom, once, for a short time in the grand scheme of things. I've almost forgiven him, if not for leaving my mom than for not taking me with him. I'll never forgive him for forcing me to become the man of the house, for forcing me to over power him, to throw him out bodily in a moment of desperation. He loves me, though, and I love him. Mom has forgiven him, though I can't understand how, and the four of us are a stronger family unit for the experience.

Then there's my brother. Unfairly cast as the dumb one, the troublemaker, he was getting lectured on the phone about almost missing his curfew while my friends and I got high in the backyard every time my parents went out of town. He's brilliant with electronics, terrible at test-taking. Anyone who hasn't known us for years would be convinced he's the smart one, taking apart computers and improving them on reassembly since he was 13 years old while I flunked out of college five years after I started. He's got a wickedly sharp wit, able to make me laugh whenever he wants. More than that, he never fell into the trap laid by my father's outward stoicism, he wears his every emotion on his sleeve, ashamed of nothing. While pops and I hide everything, cover every sign of potential weakness with a sharp word or a commanding look, my brother overwhelms everyone with his acute sense of justice and his wide open feelings. He has a quick temper, and a quicker apology. He almost worships me, but he's not afraid to tell me when I'm an asshole. He's everything I could ask for in a brother, and one of my best friends.

As you can see, I'm a lucky man. My family bugs me, stifles me, smothers me, overprotects me. They also made me who I am, and they love me anyway.