FUCKING FAMILY.
It's not even that they've done anything all that bad.
So, I was downstairs, vegging out on the soa in my pyjamas, feeling ill, watching Friends and struggling with the most immense writer's block I've had on my novel in about two years. That did not put me in particularly good mood, I have to admit. Then mum decides to block the tv by putting a lamp together in the middle of the floor. ...whatever. I can deal. It gives me a reason to stare some more at five successive scratched out sentences and the rest of an empty page. Joy. Then, she's like, "Move. I want to put this behind the sofa." I do not have to move for that. She could have done it just as easily without my budging an inch, but she makes me move EVERYTHING I've got out half a foot to the right and move out of my very comfortable slump, for no good reason.
"Why can't you move it later, when I've gone?" I ask, calmly. Ish.
"Because Alice has to hoover."
Now, there is no EARTHLY reason that my sister has to hoover right then. I was trying to watch tv! I was trying to concentrate! And I would have left in a bit anyway. It's not like we have guests coming round. It's not like any of the crap that mum got on the floor while making the lamp would actually have damaged the carpet by being left there for an hour or so.
Now the problem with this is NOT that they were being unreasonable. As such. Okay, the things they were trying to do could easily have been done later, but it's not like moving a foot or so along the sofa or turning off Friends for ten minutes was asking the Earth or anything. But the real crux of the matter is that my family have this inate ability to cause me to behave like I am eight. fucking. years. old. I could deal with that when I was a moody teenager. It didn't bother me that stamping up the stairs as loudly as possible and slamming my bedroom door (twice, to make sure they heard) were the actions of a petulant child. But I'm nineteen, I like to think that I can behave SLIGHTLY more maturely to people irritating me. I give them a dirty look and go rant to you guys or my livejournal. Not a LOT more mature, no. But it's some kind of progress.
And yet, where my family are concerned, I cannot control the stupid childish tantrums. And it makes me feel so ridiculous and petty. Which I, of course, am. And then I feel even more stupid because I am aiming this rant at my family, when I've just admitted in plain English that the problem is my own lack of maturity. Which I'm quite upfront about in any context other than my reaction to adversity. Yes, I like swings in parks and brightly coloured things, and just about anything with fur makes me squee a million miles into the air. But when it comes to actually dealing with people, I thought I'd improved since the age of eight. Apparently not.
God, I hate living at home. Thank the gods for residential language camps, that's all I can say. Fucking off back to my house in Egham first chance I get, I swear. AAAAAARGH.
Thank you for your time.
So, I was downstairs, vegging out on the soa in my pyjamas, feeling ill, watching Friends and struggling with the most immense writer's block I've had on my novel in about two years. That did not put me in particularly good mood, I have to admit. Then mum decides to block the tv by putting a lamp together in the middle of the floor. ...whatever. I can deal. It gives me a reason to stare some more at five successive scratched out sentences and the rest of an empty page. Joy. Then, she's like, "Move. I want to put this behind the sofa." I do not have to move for that. She could have done it just as easily without my budging an inch, but she makes me move EVERYTHING I've got out half a foot to the right and move out of my very comfortable slump, for no good reason.
"Why can't you move it later, when I've gone?" I ask, calmly. Ish.
"Because Alice has to hoover."
Now, there is no EARTHLY reason that my sister has to hoover right then. I was trying to watch tv! I was trying to concentrate! And I would have left in a bit anyway. It's not like we have guests coming round. It's not like any of the crap that mum got on the floor while making the lamp would actually have damaged the carpet by being left there for an hour or so.
Now the problem with this is NOT that they were being unreasonable. As such. Okay, the things they were trying to do could easily have been done later, but it's not like moving a foot or so along the sofa or turning off Friends for ten minutes was asking the Earth or anything. But the real crux of the matter is that my family have this inate ability to cause me to behave like I am eight. fucking. years. old. I could deal with that when I was a moody teenager. It didn't bother me that stamping up the stairs as loudly as possible and slamming my bedroom door (twice, to make sure they heard) were the actions of a petulant child. But I'm nineteen, I like to think that I can behave SLIGHTLY more maturely to people irritating me. I give them a dirty look and go rant to you guys or my livejournal. Not a LOT more mature, no. But it's some kind of progress.
And yet, where my family are concerned, I cannot control the stupid childish tantrums. And it makes me feel so ridiculous and petty. Which I, of course, am. And then I feel even more stupid because I am aiming this rant at my family, when I've just admitted in plain English that the problem is my own lack of maturity. Which I'm quite upfront about in any context other than my reaction to adversity. Yes, I like swings in parks and brightly coloured things, and just about anything with fur makes me squee a million miles into the air. But when it comes to actually dealing with people, I thought I'd improved since the age of eight. Apparently not.
God, I hate living at home. Thank the gods for residential language camps, that's all I can say. Fucking off back to my house in Egham first chance I get, I swear. AAAAAARGH.
Thank you for your time.