Here's the thing about my dad: He loved having kids. My sister and I had a constant playmate in my dad – a big softy who wanted nothing more than to go to the park and fly a kite. Dad was great at having kids.

Thing was, at twelve, I didn't want to be a kid anymore. Puberty was coming on strong and MTV was teaching me things about short skirts, long hair, and fast cars.

The crowning moment of this schism with me and dad was the present he gave me for my twelfth birthday: A soft, cuddly teddy bear.

I was twelve. I had a poster of a white Porche 911 on my wall and a stolen copy of Playboy under my mattress, and my father was giving me stuffed animals.

I'm sure it was given with love, but it became a symbol of everything I hated about my situation. And in that moment, I decided it would feel my wrath.