Dear Tubbo...

Letter #1

Dear Tubbo, 

  I don't really know why I'm writing a toddler a letter. You can't even read. I guess some closure would be good for you. It's also better than doing some fucking finger painting here in rehab. Don't do drugs kid, or your Uncle Phil will send you off to one of these shit holes.

  I'll have Phil give this to you when he ever he thinks it appropriate. He's probably told you some dumb shit like he found you on the side of the road or something. He didn't. I gave you up. That's why I am here. I want to get better for you. You probably won't know me as your dad but it would be nice to check up on you. 

  Your horns have probably come in or will be. Little nubs. You used to have little nubs for horns on your head. That's the only reason I knew you were actually mine. Your mom was a fucking whore. She slept around. I thought she was trying to get me to pay for someone else's kid. She was smart enough to pull it off if she tried. But she didn't, and I knew you couldn't be anyone else's when she showed me those little nubs... She left the next morning without warning and didn't take you with her. 

  Horned people, or as the books refer to us as 'Sheep people' (fucking pussy-ass name if you ask me), aren't common. So if you meet a nice girl with wooly hair, don't date her. She's probably related to you or something. Old tales said that the women would stay away from us horned fellas because of the pregnancy's excruciating pain. Then of course there were pitchforkers that didn't like us much in the early 1700s. Historians say by the 1750s 80 percent of the population was killed off. Then the numbers continued to drop through the ages. So that's how I knew. So I was pretty damn sure you were mine, if I liked it or not.

  Well, I'll leave you with that kid,

       -Pa