I’m pretty sure “father” is just a really nice way of saying “fuckwad.”

He’s got a wife, who is kind, and pretty and apparently loves him, and is one of the sweetest, happiest people to ever live. He’s got three kids, all in relative good health, two of whom are out of his hair for good, seem to be happy, and are involved in serious relationships. He’s got four siblings who are all also in good health, and for some unfathomable reason like him. He’s got a nice house, a neat little car, and all sorts of cool little models and figures that he so loves to paint and put together.

As far as I can see, his only real problems are me, and the fact that he’s never happy with anything. And he apparently thinks a different house will solve all his problems. Like if he lives somewhere else, he suddenly won’t be old as fuck anymore, and his circulation problems and his diabetes with just clear up, and the doctors will suddenly be intelligent, and his faboo wife and his nice siblings and his (mostly) happy kids will just magically be enough for him.

Yeah, well, guess what, old man? You don’t know fuck-all about being unhappy, and you REALLY don’t know shit about getting happy. When you’ve gone from hard laughter to tears in the span of three minutes, or spent a hundred dollars in one day trying to cheer yourself up after a near-breakdown, then we can talk problems and whether or not material goods ever solve anything. But until then, SHUT. THE. FUCK. UP.