Well That Is That

Apparently I am a loathsome manifestation worthy of H.P. Lovecraft on a good day. This is what my daughter thinks of me:   > 27, 2013 at 9:48pmThere's nothing quite like knowing
 things about other people that you know they don't know
 that you know. Shall I display compassion? Or shall I
 unleash the full force of my contempt upon these
 creatures? It is a heady power I hold in my talons;
 Obad-Hai, guide me in this, my time of indecision. The
 forces of chaos compel me, but how much horror and
 loathing shall I inflict? Wounded beasts howl silently on
 either side of me; one I have decided to show mercy to,
 the other I know from experience is best ignored...but the
 temptation to goad is strong, and the sting has been
 placed in my hand by my prey itself. How best to stalk
 this beast which, when caught, will only gnash its teeth
 and writhe in self-pity as it does even when unmolested?
 Its head is too full of bees to make a trophy of, its skin
 too diseased to dance in. To the human I say, live; I
 speak to you to offer help, but I am definitely going to
 take a few potshots while I have the chance and
  you're just gonna have to deal. To the monster I say, die,
 die, embrace the oblivion you have always craved and
 forced upon your appalled offspring, read my words and
 tremble for to block you would be a mercy and I have
 nothing in my heart for you but hate as that is all you
 have earned. Perhaps it will recognize itself in this
 screed, but as this creature is cursed to see only
 infinite reflections of itself and hear only echoes of its
 own imbecilic rage, I have my doubts. There is one and
 only one that I pity; there is only one I believe should
 continue existing, because he has the potential to love
 and learn and grow, although I will not be there to prove
 it. I have no stake in this, only the desire to maintain a
 neutral alignment, which necessitates the doing of a few
 good deeds. If I can offer assistance to him, if I can
 teach him something, if I can get him to see himself
 through my eyes, then I will be satisfied. Then I can
 allow myself an evil
  act; then I can taste the blood of the fool, although I
 know it is a poison. What have I drank in my life but
 poison? It is monster's milk. What violence can I do to
 you, so many miles away; what anguish can I inflict upon
 you, who cares nothing for me because I am no longer what
 you wanted me to be? Perhaps by being myself I have
 already done enough. Can I afford to thrive on spite for a
 short time, or will it prove so addictive that if I do not
 restrain myself, I will turn into you after all? These are
 rhetorical questions, as neither one of you has anything
 to say that I care to hear; one of you may find redemption,
 although you worship wrongly and offend both god and
 man. The monster is doomed, trapped in its own hell like
 Lucifer in the ice, betrayer of kin, betrayer of guests,
 betrayer of all that is natural, and as I have already
 climbed its stinking flanks and escaped into Purgatory,
 why should I again cross Ptolomaea to spite it?

That seems to be the end of that relationship.