If you are reading this, you are one of two people.
You are either Ging Freecs, the dead-beat father and jackass for whom this long-winded set of letters is written for,
Or you are some nosy bastard who has gone through my things.
Whoever you are, I have only one thing to say to you.
Fuck you, honestly.
Go die in a fire.
Sincerely,
Me.
.
.
.
It's been about 12 and a half years since my eyes were subjected to the ugly visage of Ging Freecs.
It's been 12 years since that bastard up and left without a damn word and fucked off to who knows where.
Since then, I have experienced 12 years of pure rage.
I'm not an angry person, really. In fact, I'd say I'm quite patient.
The people around me know this. And that is why when I say that I want to castrate Ging Freecs and bury him alive, I cannot emphasise enough how serious I am.
Kaito suggested I try and express my rage in a healthy way.
You know, given how both Ging and his balls are who-knows-where so I cannot enact my revenge on them.
The silver-haired hippie (I love Kaito, really, but all his talks of inner peace and tranquillity kinda piss me off - especially when he himself, is prone to losing his temper, fucking hypocrite) suggested writing some letters to Ging.
Not that we have anywhere to send these letters, but just to write and express myself through.
The result of that is the letters you are reading now.
Heed my words, though. This is not for me. This is not some sappy and emotional form of therapy for me to "let my emotions out".
No.
This is for Ging.
Because if there is one thing that is clear, it is that the only way this rage will ever leave me is to hunt Ging down myself and force him to read these damn things.
Even if it means becoming a damn hunter myself.
So no, this is not a heartfelt memoir, nor a cry for help.
It is closer to a thinly veiled threat towards Ging Freecs and his shrivelled genitalia for leaving me, leaving his son, and then leaving me with his son.
Probably both.
Hey Ging, fuck you.