Hello, Journal. I was named Ken Paradox by my mother 22 years ago. Why is it that I've started writing in you? Something tragic happened two weeks ago.

My father, Hunter Paradox, died. He was addicted to smoking. He would smoke about five packs a day! Curse my damn father, he got what he deserved. I probably shouldn't be saying stuff like that, though.

I still haven't told you why I have you. That same week my father died, a funeral was held to say goodbye to the dearest Hunter Paradox. My mother had approached me while holding a handkerchief to dry away her tears. She was also holding something else in her hand.

"Kenneth, your father wanted me to give you something," she told me.

"May I ask what it is?" I questioned her.

She held out her other hand to show a dusty little book. That my dear friend, was you. And you smelled like cigars.

"A book?" I said, confused. Hunter never had a liking to books.

"Not exactly," she explained. "It's a journal."

"What, did Hunt- I mean Father write in it? Has he repented wasting his life on cigars than spending time with his own damn family?"

"Ken! Please," said a voice behind me. I turned around to find my younger sister, Juliet Paradox, who is two years younger than me.

"You mustn't speak that way about the dead," she cautioned. "Especially right here. We're at dad's funeral for heaven's sake."

I would have rolled my eyes but my sister is the closest one to me in the family. Instead I looked at the ground and quietly muttered an apology. My sister nodded her head as to forgive me.

My mother walked closer to us and I looked up.

"This journal is for you to write in. I think it's empty, but I'm not sure," she said. "You know how your father was. He never liked people looking into his business."

And that's the story of how I got you. I don't know why Hunter wants me writing in here, but my mother had such a look of sadness on her face that I could not decline. Weak, I know. At least I'M not like my moronic father.