The Door is Getting Closer
It seems like I’m always really late for things like wanting to drive and wanting to leave, maybe its just me, late for everything. I don’t really know, but lately I have been wishing that I could come home to my house or apartment or something. Coming home her, to my house, is like loading a gun, pointing it at your foot and intentionally pulling the trigger EVERY DAY. Perhaps I might elucidate on why it is that I have such a problem coming home, I know it sounds whiny but it really does bother me because I want there to be something and there isn’t. (If I didn’t want my parents to care I couldn’t complain.) What happens all the time is that I say something, do something, or something happens to me and it makes me excited or otherwise happy. Then I tell my parents, hence the mistake and the loaded gun lowered toward my foot.
It’s the sort of thing that can be compared with me climbing Mount Everest or something and my Dad would say something like “Oh, I suppose this is supposed to mean something, you want me to be happy for you. Pathetic, this was your life’s goal?” Whereas my mother would say something to the effect of, well I don’t know probably something that subliminally means “Fuck you.”
I see it now, the day I bring home the thirteen or so things I made in Ceramics this quarter, I’ll show them the piece I am most proud of and they will say:
Dad: *looking up from paper with absolutely no interest. Extreme disinterest in his voice.* “That’s nice, you know you could have run down to Michaels or something and picked one up for a couple bucks, it would’ve probably looked longer, and you wouldn’t’ve wasted so much time.”
Mom:*distractedly* “Shut-up, I’m watching Dr. Phil, you should consider going to Chaffey.”
That’s another source of debate; they want me to go to Chaffey because it’s cheaper. I don’t want to go to Chaffey. They are acting as though they are paying for my college, they aren’t. I am. The loans are being taken out in MY name. They don’t have to pay a damn dime.
It also fascinates me that my mom can bother me for the last 3 or 4 months about cutting my hair and then when I ASK her if she can take me to go get my hair cut she’s suddenly to busy watching, you guessed it, Dr. Phil. My dad doesn’t give me the time of day. I guess I’ll have to get used to it or find some sort of solution. I want to move.
I really hope Mike and I find a place, I would like living with him, he’s a really cool guy and he’s always good to joke around with and have an intelligent conversation with.
Well hopefully my parents give enough of a damn to get me to the hair cutting place so I can get a job and thus spend less time at this hell hole. DAMN IT ALL, I WANT TO LEAVE.
“Great day to be alive sir.”
My music today is placed with utmost sarcasm.
It’s the sort of thing that can be compared with me climbing Mount Everest or something and my Dad would say something like “Oh, I suppose this is supposed to mean something, you want me to be happy for you. Pathetic, this was your life’s goal?” Whereas my mother would say something to the effect of, well I don’t know probably something that subliminally means “Fuck you.”
I see it now, the day I bring home the thirteen or so things I made in Ceramics this quarter, I’ll show them the piece I am most proud of and they will say:
Dad: *looking up from paper with absolutely no interest. Extreme disinterest in his voice.* “That’s nice, you know you could have run down to Michaels or something and picked one up for a couple bucks, it would’ve probably looked longer, and you wouldn’t’ve wasted so much time.”
Mom:*distractedly* “Shut-up, I’m watching Dr. Phil, you should consider going to Chaffey.”
That’s another source of debate; they want me to go to Chaffey because it’s cheaper. I don’t want to go to Chaffey. They are acting as though they are paying for my college, they aren’t. I am. The loans are being taken out in MY name. They don’t have to pay a damn dime.
It also fascinates me that my mom can bother me for the last 3 or 4 months about cutting my hair and then when I ASK her if she can take me to go get my hair cut she’s suddenly to busy watching, you guessed it, Dr. Phil. My dad doesn’t give me the time of day. I guess I’ll have to get used to it or find some sort of solution. I want to move.
I really hope Mike and I find a place, I would like living with him, he’s a really cool guy and he’s always good to joke around with and have an intelligent conversation with.
Well hopefully my parents give enough of a damn to get me to the hair cutting place so I can get a job and thus spend less time at this hell hole. DAMN IT ALL, I WANT TO LEAVE.
“Great day to be alive sir.”
My music today is placed with utmost sarcasm.