Unfiltered Story #343211

(When I was little, from age 4 until 15, Dad, who was obsessed with soccer, made me train and practice it for hours each day, and I grew to hate it even more. He only finally stopped forcing me when I grew too ill. My brother, who loves it just as Dad does, can’t understand why I hate it.)

Brother: “Come on, give me one good reason why you hate it.”

Me: “Oh I don’t know. Maybe it’s because I was chased and yelled at by Dad every day.”

Brother: “That’s not good enough. Come on ONE good reason.”

Me: “How about I had to practice until I puked? Literally puked?”

Brother: “That’s still not good enough.”

Me: “How about you do it then? Practice it until you throw up? I guarantee you’ll get sick of it real fast.”

Brother: “Ok, fine! I will!”

(He never did. But he still asks me for one good reason why soccer’s so bad.)