Roses are red, violets are blue...
My Dad found out through the Internet--not on Facebook or anything like that. No, my Dad got to read some of my poetic genius.
I was in my late teens and had submitted some of my deliciously BAD (it was so bad that the word needs to be in all caps--BAD) poetry to a poetry site run by a dude who held open mic nights in a local coffee shop.
I ended up being poet of the week and that awful poetry was posted out there for all them thar Internet surfers to see.
On a whim my Dad googled my name and, bing! Oh look! Poetry written by his daughter! About her girlfriend. And her girlfriends boobies.
He called me and said, "So...congrats on being a featured poet."
I was flabbergasted. "Oh, hey, thanks...Dad."
To which he replied, "Well? Are you?"
I said yes, and the conversation moved on from there just like usual. He's been my biggest supporter ever since--not supportive of the poetry, but certainly my sexual preferences. I can't blame him for the poetry part.
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