Asshole. Asshole! Asshole! Asshole! That's the only word coming to mind after seeing that photo. You went to Brandon's wedding. Of course you did. Wouldn't have missed that for the world, eh? You bastard. I take that back, you spineless, apathetic, pathetic man. You can't even answer one of my stinkin' emails or call me on my birthday. Oh wait, you don't even know that I live a thousand miles away! You have made zero effort, zero, to find me or contact me. I've found you. I've even tried looking you up anywhere I can hoping that I can find a current, or at least somewhat current, picture of you. Or find out something.
Like I've said before it's like you've died. Like you no longer exist. I wonder if that's how you feel about me. Like Josh and Cass were just beamed off the face of the Earth never to be seen again. Now we're on some planet for kids whose fathers can't freaking stand up for themselves. It's a damn lonely planet, Dad. Damn lonely. You don't even deserve to be called Dad. Chris. Christopher. Dammit I wanted to name my son after you! Can't do that now. I couldn't answer his question of, "where did my name come from?" Because then I would have to dive into the deep pit of blackness that once was my love for you. What was a field full of beautiful flowers, music, artistic conversations, recipe exchanges, and admiration is now an dark, bottomless pit of hurt, resentment, tears, and longing. You, sir, are a fuck. A complete and utter fuck.
In my last letter to you I said that despite the fact you've written me off as a daughter I would still take you back. Now I'm not so sure I would. I think I'm starting to accept the fact that you aren't "going out for a pack of smokes." You don't deserve to share in my happiness. I can't believe you're a father.. my father. We used to have such good times. Reading us Dave Barry. Learning your "cheese folding formula" so we could "use the least amount of cheese, but still getting the coverage you need on that burger." Standing with you at the grill, asking questions about what this was and why you have a bucket of soaked wood. Going to Grandma's, you sitting in her chair. Watching Baby Animals for the umpteenth time or the first level of Mario Bros.. No more of that now. No more birthday cards. ("Welcome to the double digits." 10th birthday) No more new restaurants to try. No more you. No more father. No more. You will never know this, but when you left a piece of me did too.
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