(no subject)
Here is my ten year plan:
As of fifteen minutes ago, my parents are no longer paying for my college education, but rather investing in their retirement. This does not bother me, because the very day I turn eighteen, I will disappear. I will get onto a bus heading westward and change my name while sitting in the third seat from the back, left of the aisle. I will live in a prairie town where the jobs dried up sometime after the New Deal programs died, where trucks occasionally rumble by on their way from metropolis to metropolis. I will live in a one room apartment in the only place for rent for ten miles in any direction. I will not sing, nor write, nor turn on the news. I will cut my hair off with a blunt pair of scissors from the drawer of the office in the roach-infested diner in which I am a waitress. My hands will sprout new callouses, and grow rough from washing dishes. I will take to drinking alone on the weekends, and when the utility bill goes unpaid, as it often will, I will clink the bottle against the glass by moonlight. There is only one window in the apartment. I own one pair of pants (I will never wear skirts) and two shirts--one for cold weather, one for warm. At twenty four, I will use what's left of my paycheck to buy sleeping pills. I will not pay any of my creditors that month. As the lights flicker out for good for the third month in a row, I will go to sleep. At our ten year class reunion, I will not be marked deceased, because no one, especially not my parents, will know where to locate me. It will only be many years later, when you are all old, (though not fat and wrinkled, because you will have all moved back here to raise your inbred brats and will be rich enough to afford plastic surgery) that news of me will filter back among you. You won't remember who I was at first. Then you'll turn to your husband or wife (who, by the way, will have been cheating on you for years) and slur some inane banality. That will be my final eulogy.
I don't care what you think about this.
As of fifteen minutes ago, my parents are no longer paying for my college education, but rather investing in their retirement. This does not bother me, because the very day I turn eighteen, I will disappear. I will get onto a bus heading westward and change my name while sitting in the third seat from the back, left of the aisle. I will live in a prairie town where the jobs dried up sometime after the New Deal programs died, where trucks occasionally rumble by on their way from metropolis to metropolis. I will live in a one room apartment in the only place for rent for ten miles in any direction. I will not sing, nor write, nor turn on the news. I will cut my hair off with a blunt pair of scissors from the drawer of the office in the roach-infested diner in which I am a waitress. My hands will sprout new callouses, and grow rough from washing dishes. I will take to drinking alone on the weekends, and when the utility bill goes unpaid, as it often will, I will clink the bottle against the glass by moonlight. There is only one window in the apartment. I own one pair of pants (I will never wear skirts) and two shirts--one for cold weather, one for warm. At twenty four, I will use what's left of my paycheck to buy sleeping pills. I will not pay any of my creditors that month. As the lights flicker out for good for the third month in a row, I will go to sleep. At our ten year class reunion, I will not be marked deceased, because no one, especially not my parents, will know where to locate me. It will only be many years later, when you are all old, (though not fat and wrinkled, because you will have all moved back here to raise your inbred brats and will be rich enough to afford plastic surgery) that news of me will filter back among you. You won't remember who I was at first. Then you'll turn to your husband or wife (who, by the way, will have been cheating on you for years) and slur some inane banality. That will be my final eulogy.
I don't care what you think about this.