I love you son, but this is the contract both you and your sister agreed to when you were born. You are now old enough to fulfill your destiny. Now get down on your knees and let me erotically yet firmly spit in your face and gently smear it through your hair with my fingers. If you keep talking shit to me I will straight up murder your punk-ass dog and your goldfish. I love you son, but I simply don't allow little dick-nibblers like yourself in my house. Pack your shit and leave my sight before I erase your very existence with my 1934 handmade german leather belt. Also I am not your dad. I know this might come as a shock to you and it might also not be the best way of telling you, but I've never been your dad and I never really took a liking to you. Your mother was a dissapointment and so you became one aswell. Why are you still here? Get out of here. Don't forget to write about your journeys. I love you son.