“Hang in there, son. You can do it. It’s all riding on you, blah, blah, blah.” I hate my dad. Fuckin’ hate him. What an asshole. Here I am, his only Goddamned son, and he’s treating me like he doesn’t care. It’s not my fault he didn’t live the life he wanted. It’s not my fault he didn’t get to do what he wanted with his youth. Nope, not my fault at all…and I’ll be damned if he thinks I’m going to take this anymore.

You’re probably wondering why I have so much resentment for the old man. Well, probably for the same reason many young men harbor a secret loathing of their paters. You see, a son is like a remedy for a wasted life. The term is “living vicariously.” It means “I wish I had, so you sure as hell are going to.”

On top of this, my dad was never around. I don’t even really consider him a real father. He knocked up my mom and left town, just like that. She found a new man, of course, but I know she never got over how that dirt bag pulled the old fuck-and-run.

When I was about twelve, there was an ugly custody battle, and dad won the right to help raise me. What did this mean? Control me. Every aspect of my life. My poor mother, she put up with it for what she believed was my best interest…but I know she didn’t like it any more than I did.

I never got what I wanted. Dad told me living “frugally” built character. When the other guys were dating and buying designer labels, he made me study and work. I became unpopular. White trash. A name was made for me as a “daddy’s boy,” and the only people who would hang out with me were the other losers I went to school with or knew from the neighborhood.

He wanted to be young again. That was his problem. He wanted to know what it was like. He’d grown up so fast, the world had changed all around him. He wanted a second chance, and I was it. Mother fucker…I never got why he drove me so hard. It’s not like I was going to save the world, I was just a kid…am just a man…

It hurts. I just wanted a normal life. One like the other kids had. Play ball with the old man. Sit around and read. Have my mother tell me stories. Date and fool around and live a normal fucking life! I didn’t think it was too much to ask…and still  don’t.

Oh, but the second I brought it up…that’s when it hit the fan. “You’re not normal! You’re better than the lot of them, don’t you understand? You were meant for better things than they were! You are my son and as my son you will do what I say!” Yeah. Ok. So I did.

I was a perfect son. I never talked back, not really. I gave and gave and gave. I worked and learned and “built character” out the ass. I fought and struggled to be exactly what he wanted me to be. And I guess now I am.

Tell me…did your father ever let you get nailed to a tree? I didn’t think so. Fucking asshole.