Daddy Dearest . . .

I sent him a letter last monday.

Was I an idiot to try? Am I a fool to think that there is a human being in that wretched man?

Do I make myself seem even more pitiful every time I do this?

Answer to all of this?

Yes.

Daddy dearest, daddy dearest, did you run away from me?

. . . yes.

I really want to get angry right now. I'm working on it. In the meantime, I have a playlist on my computer which is helping. (Ironically enough, the playlist from a mix cd that I decided not to mail to him. Pathetic much?) By figuring mail times, if he even does write back, I'd get a letter on monday.

Do I seriously expect one? Nope. As my mother said, I'm simply 'beating my head against a stone wall.' I might add, 'repeatedly.' He obviously doesn't care, so why the hell do I keep doing this?

. . . I tell myself that I still want to give him the chance to redeem himself, no matter how ridiculous I might appear in the whole farce. I tell myself that I don't care, but maybe I do. Whatever the truth is, I do know one thing: I'm waiting on something that won't ever come. I have two months left before I graduate high school. I haven't spoken or heard from him since before 8th grade. Does that answer my question? Yes. It does, without reserve.