Why I hate my dad

Maybe some of you opened this blog up and thought you were going to read something about how my dad cheated on my mom and then left the family and became a psychotic jerkface.  But you're not going to.  I don't hate Pops for that.  I mean, obviously, he's a piece, but he had already let me down.  I hate my dad because of, get ready for it, the sub-par sack-lunches he made for me to take to school.  There I sat in the cafeteria eating some variant of my three sandwich choices- 1. Turkey with cheese, iceberg lettuce and mayo, 2.  Peanut butter and jelly (with strawberry jam with actual strawberries in it which was super gross because the strawberries in preserve form took on this really bizarre texture which I would liken to raw meat, yea imagine biting into that, mmm) never with the right balance between the two spreads, or 3. Cheese sandwich with American cheese and sometimes a little Italian dressing (where he cooked that one up, I'll never know).  Sometimes I would have an apple or a branch of grapes.  Sometimes I would have a bag (never the fun-pack kind always janky looking in the sandwich baggie) pretzels or Cheez-its.  A toughened fruit roll up (mmm some dehydrated jelly to go with my regular jelly, thanks!) Then, Motts apple juice.  Where was my fruit punch, my Sunny D?  Where were my Gushers, snack size portions of Ruffles or Lays, or my Dunkaroos?  Huh Dad?  Where were my Dunkaroos?  What about a Hostess cupcake or some Twinkies?  Why didn't I ever get a Lunchables Pizza Pack for Friday as a special treat?  You bastard.  I'm scarred for life.  At least the other kids who brought their lunch didn't seem like they were eating a throw-back to the Eisenhower administration.  I sat there, eating my embarrassing lunch and washing it down with warm Mott's apple juice from a box.  I hate apple juice.  Oh and the piece de resistance...sometimes (Lauren stop reading this right now) I would be eating one of his carefully prepared cheese sandwiches and I'd try to swallow part of the bite only to have it stuck, hanging in my throat, dangling in my esophagus like a fishing lure on a line, still attached to the other half of the bite still betwixt my teeth by one of his overly-long well-groomed hairs rendering me to near choking.  At least twice this happened.  Fuck you, Dad.