Dear Tubbo...

Letter #7

Dear Tubbo,

It's kinda a pain in the ass that I can't get you to write up any documents for me. Phil told me a few years back that you were dyslexic but damn kid, I didn't know it was that bad. I̶ ̶w̶o̶n̶d̶e̶r̶ ̶i̶f̶ ̶i̶t̶'̶s̶ ̶b̶e̶c̶a̶u̶s̶e̶ ̶I̶ ̶d̶i̶d̶n̶'̶t̶ ̶r̶e̶a̶d̶ ̶t̶o̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶ ̶w̶h̶e̶n̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶ ̶w̶e̶r̶e̶ ̶l̶i̶t̶t̶l̶e̶ ̶o̶r̶ ̶s̶o̶m̶e̶t̶h̶i̶n̶g̶.̶ Just researched it. Apparently, you can't prevent it. At least I didn't fuck that up.

Anyways, it's nice having you around. You've had a lot of good ideas. Ones I probably would've taken if I didn't wanna see this place go to shit. I have no doubts that you'll do good things. I wish I could say I was proud to be your father but I don't think I have the right.

I'm writing this because I caught myself wanting to drink. To be honest I've wanted to drink since I've been here. I've tried distracting myself by working out, throwing myself in work, even flirting with that FAT ass in the cabinet but to no avail. So I thought I'd try guilt-tripping myself. I don't think Phil is ever gonna give you the letters at this point but I can try and imagine the disappointment on your face if you were to read this and know I wanted to drink again. Just maybe that image will keep me straight.

Do good,

-Schlatt