To my yet to be conceived son,
Yes, I'm calling it, you're going to be a boy. If I ever do decide to knock up your mother, no doubt about it, you're going to be a boy. First of all, I take ten (ten!) minutes of meditation time a day, concentrating about Y-Chromosomes. So if your mother and I do decide to have a kid, which we probably won't because you fuckers are annoying as hell, you're going to be a boy.
If for some reason my meditation powers don't work, and you turn out to be a girl, you're going to the Jolie-Pitt family. They love their Asians. Why would I do that? Because I don't want to deal with all the shit that girls go through. Not only that, but you're probably going to end up being a girl version of me, which means you'll feel sorry for the creepy future serial killer, and do stupid shit with him like getting pregnant. Either that, or you'll be starving for attention from anyone, which means you'll end up dating a 28 year-old who lives in his parents basement and collects Army knives. And then he's going to convince you to take pictures of yourself, and you'll agree to it, and the next thing you know, your pictures are all over the internet, bringing shame to our family for generations.
Anyway, back to you, my wonderful son. I'm 80% sure that I'm going to name you JaGy-JoGo, after the only two men (with the possible exception of Clive Owen, but that's iffy) that I would leave your mother for.
Although you're not even conceived yet, your old man has been doing a lot of thinking, and he decided that his family has a history of medical problems like breast cancer, diabetes, and bipolar disorder. While your old man shows no signs of any of those diseases, you never know. It seems the trend in our family is for people--especially the men--to go batshit crazy around the age of 45. Also, there's also a high possibility that I may die. I've been known to have extremely bad luck, and getting myself hurt while performing the simplest of tasks, like doing the laundry. Just the other day, your old man went to a coworker's birthday party, and that jive-ass mofo decided to leave his three cats out in the common area to interact with the humans.
You see, son, your old man is allergic to cats, so while he was driving home, his eyes were watery and he was sneezing so hard that he was surprised that he didn't give himself a concussion. To make a long story short, I almost drove into an 18 wheeler. I could have died, but thankfully, I'm Asian so I come equipped with Ninja-like reflexes.
But even so, accidents could happen, so that means I could die any day. I could be walking to the mini-mart to get some cigarettes and get struck by lightning. I could be watching a scary movie while sucking on a lollipop, and something scary jumps out, so I inhale, forgetting about the lollipop, and choke to death. I could be helping an old woman carry her groceries back to her place, when, all of a sudden, she's not an old woman but a terrorist with a bomb!
The world is a dangerous place. That's an important life lesson to know, which neatly segues into the purpose of this letter: Life lessons from your old man who has either died, or went batshit crazy, both of which are high possibilities.
So I hope you take this advice to heart, and live your life to the fullest.
The first piece of advice I can give you is to read. Just this morning, your old man was checking his Facebook to see if his old friends still knew he existed when he came across this status update from a 25 year-old woman: "