Dearest father,
I hate you. I've hated you since I was fourteen, and now you should know.
I've fantasized about your demise, smiling inside. Sometimes I've thought of doing it myself. Something brutal. Something slow. I want to watch your regret. And I'd watch you try to be sorry.
But you never are. Never.
And you have no regrets, selfish man.
What do you care about? You've memorized the tv guide. Your computers always on. You have tons of shit. Useless shit.
You have two kids. You have a wife.
And you are useless.
Where is your love? What is your love?
I dreamt about it once, what it could be. Maybe you'd come home with my favorite mexican food and ask to have dinner with me. Maybe you'd wish me goodnight. Maybe you'd say you're proud. You love me. You want me. I'm beautiful, and you're so grateful.
Maybe you'd even care about something, anything, other than yourself.
But I awake everyday to the devastating reality of you. Your lazy saunter. Your permanent scowl. The unmitigated disappointment you've caused me.
You stay here; I must go now. I will not turn back.
I'm not sorry.
But neither are you, I think.
