Drug addicts and rear view mirrors.
Do we really become our parents? I ask only because I’m feeling particularly insane today, and I figure…genetics is a pretty reliable scapegoat, right?
The things inside Kim’s head are all floating around today with no distinct attachment to reality. Mother Carroll is being ridiculous. It’s a bizarre flip of events, this house is. I’m seventeen (Aren’t I?); I’m supposed to have the idiot, druggie boyfriend. I’m supposed to get irrationally attached to some asshole and pretend I know what I’m doing. I’m supposed to be self-absorbed and condescending and completely clueless. But she’s gone and snatched my role as seventeen year old…and I’m left in the over-sized mommy slippers, gagging on all the sudden responsibility being shoved down my throat. You’d think I’d have adjusted to this by now, and it doesn’t really bother me…but I was kind of hoping, kind of very naively hoping, that a mother was someone you could talk to. I don’t know how I jumped to that radical conclusion, but damn was I mislead. Communication is the number one no-no in the Moore house.
Alright, I lied. We communicate just fine - down a one-way line. She unloads onto me and I listen and smile and say the right, daughterly things. But I try to pop a little of my life into the verbal casserole and WHAM - brick wall. So she unloads to me and I unload here because, let’s face it, who the hell have I got to dump all my emotional ick on? I’m in love with a man I’m desperately trying to hide myself from and no matter what winds carry me, the friends closest to me all seem to have their gazes pointed sharply south.
I really feel like I’ve abused this thing lately…but I think that’s because I know virtually no one is reading (No Austin, I haven’t forgotten about you. J ), so I don’t feel self-conscious about getting all of my mental messiness out there. But I still feel cluttered, and it’s grating on my senses. Hm. Maybe there’s no cure for a seventeen year-old’s mid-life crisis.
P.S: There's a story in my head...about a girl, and a car with no rear view mirror.
The things inside Kim’s head are all floating around today with no distinct attachment to reality. Mother Carroll is being ridiculous. It’s a bizarre flip of events, this house is. I’m seventeen (Aren’t I?); I’m supposed to have the idiot, druggie boyfriend. I’m supposed to get irrationally attached to some asshole and pretend I know what I’m doing. I’m supposed to be self-absorbed and condescending and completely clueless. But she’s gone and snatched my role as seventeen year old…and I’m left in the over-sized mommy slippers, gagging on all the sudden responsibility being shoved down my throat. You’d think I’d have adjusted to this by now, and it doesn’t really bother me…but I was kind of hoping, kind of very naively hoping, that a mother was someone you could talk to. I don’t know how I jumped to that radical conclusion, but damn was I mislead. Communication is the number one no-no in the Moore house.
Alright, I lied. We communicate just fine - down a one-way line. She unloads onto me and I listen and smile and say the right, daughterly things. But I try to pop a little of my life into the verbal casserole and WHAM - brick wall. So she unloads to me and I unload here because, let’s face it, who the hell have I got to dump all my emotional ick on? I’m in love with a man I’m desperately trying to hide myself from and no matter what winds carry me, the friends closest to me all seem to have their gazes pointed sharply south.
I really feel like I’ve abused this thing lately…but I think that’s because I know virtually no one is reading (No Austin, I haven’t forgotten about you. J ), so I don’t feel self-conscious about getting all of my mental messiness out there. But I still feel cluttered, and it’s grating on my senses. Hm. Maybe there’s no cure for a seventeen year-old’s mid-life crisis.
P.S: There's a story in my head...about a girl, and a car with no rear view mirror.