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Rated: E · Letter/Memo · Other · #2258821
But father, it is my generation?
It's nights like these that my emotions seem to grow in coal as I stare at the yellow block of cheese hanging in the sky. And I hear him ranting and grunting and spitting out poison again- this time about the youth gone bad.

He speaks of us like an apple. My my what a shame...has he forgotten the trees we have grown on?

He talks about the past as though I would know where his anger has rooted from. I wish I could find it myself and pull it out of his gut with a force that would extract all the bile he owns in that meaty flesh.

I do wish he could stop tossing complaints and horrific jokes about other cultures like a salad and force me to eat it as the others devour it. Little do they know it gets stuck in their teeth-my little secret.

I am aware that my generation has mishaps and a few blunders. Yes, I am aware that we make mistakes. But my dear father...,y loving, caring, thoughtful father...

This lost generation you speak of
is MY generation.

In that, I find peace enough to keep my mouth shut and allow the fools to kill themselves.
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