Dad. You were supposed to be the one who taught me how to play ball, to fix cars, to hit on chicks. Dad. You were supposed to be the one to yell at me when I came home drunk from a party the first time because I could always call you, anytime, and you might be upset but you wouldn’t be mad. Dad. You would be disappointed, because that would hurt me far worse than any punishment one could dream up. Dad. I’m the one disappointed, I can’t even be mad. To be mad would mean I care, and it’s disappointment in the fact that the Dad I thought people have isn’t the Dad I have and God I wish I knew how to be a Dad right now. Disappointment that I have no one to ask how the fuck I’m supposed to help my little girl not turn out to be the disappointment I’m sure I am to you. Dad. I waited for so long for you to come around, to apologize for beating the crap out of me. Dad. I wanted so much for you to finally understand how much I needed you when I needed you but now you’re just this shell of an idea that I can’t even talk to because the minute I do all the memories come flooding back and the only feeling left is disappointment. Dad. I wish I could mourn what little relationship we had, but you’re a stranger passing on the street. You’re the car I passed without noticing, Dad. What I would have given for you to turn around and notice me. To tell me you’re sorry just once, and mean it. Just. Once.