Your feigned approval of me for the last few years has always been the root of my destruction. When you started taking out the screws that held me together, i held onto my structure for dear life as my walls and windows swayed. I turned into the Leaning Tower of Pisa as my frame settled lopsided, too eager to fall with one more blow. I became a tourist attraction with people who come to find out why i don't stand up straight anymore, why i tilt my paper to the side so i can write in a straight line, why i never seem to see things the right way. People take pictures of them feigning to be the reason as to why I'm so crooked with their arms extended as if they were the ones who pushed me. But Dad, they will never know why i look the way i do until they see your hands, dirtied with the rust of bolts and gun powder from placing these last bombs around me. I thought construction was over but i see it was just on remission, just a residual case of building. Of course you must return to finish the job. Welcome, dad, i know you've got the blue print on just how exactly to destroy me. You've set one bomb off tonight, how long until you release the others?