Categories > Original > Drama3 Reviews
Ranting and probably the reason my parents have us in family therapy. I swear a lot in this.
Fuck you, fuck everything you stand for and fuck you because its your fault I’m in this mess but its also mine and there isn’t anything you can do about it or your failure of a daughter.
I only have one question.
How are you going to fix me now?
I’m not five anymore, you can’t put a sparkly Band-Aid on it and kiss it better. Telling me to walk it off (I will never forgive you for that be the way) is stupid and taking me out to Boston Pizza will cause more problems (and besides, I’m not sure if I’m even allowed in there since last time they threatened to call the cops).
So what are you going to do?
Are you going to lock me up and let them stuff me full of calories and medication and never let me see anything sharper than a butter knife for the rest of my life?
Well you might.
Mom might make a joke to my face and laugh, like she did in the emergency room when I was twelve after I tried to kill myself for the first time, then breakdown crying a few minutes.
Guess what bitch, you don’t get to be sad. Its my life, my problems and I don’t care if I sound like a spoiled brat (I probably am but that’s besides the point. And also your fault) because crying is going to solve nothing. Except it makes me feel worse about this situation, and that’s impressive not to mention counterproductive.
So fuck you.
And just so you know, dragging me off to church makes me want to go kill myself in their bathroom (I could if I set my mind to it, if you haven’t taken the razor out of the back of my phone) and I know you favor Julies, she’s the perfect one, the skinny one, the talented one, the smart one. I get it.
But you could at least try to remember when I dance and that I told you I like real books then go buy me an e-reader. Or maybe just try and not cringe every time I mention a band that I like is in town (but in my defense dad, you don’t listen to anything other than the Beatles and even mom thinks Matt Webb is hot). And I want an electric guitar, and I always will and no amount of Chapter’s gift cards or what ever you’re getting me for Christmas will change that so you can try to understand me and not glare and say “Not under my roof,” every fucking time I mention piercings and tattoos to you (And I’m going to swear all I want, bitch, its your fault for swearing enough for my three year old self to be able to mimic your tone perfectly for grandma). Just so you know, I’m going to drink all the coke I want and be glad I’m getting calories because I’m on my fifth day of not keeping anything down (Yeah I’m throwing it up or “forgetting” to eat) and if you still believe I’m fine, I cut myself and tried to FUCKING KILL MYSLEF less than a YEAR ago.
And yet you think I’m fine.
Or maybe you don’t, but you care enough to try.
And mom, I know I’m fat, you don’t need to repeatedly tell me how many calories everything has and poke MY FUCKING STOMACH because newsflash YOU AREN’T HELPING ANYTHING!!!!!
And I know how metabolism works and how cardio burns fat and dad if you don’t think ballet is cardio, THEN GO TRY MY FUCKING CLASS and I DARE YOU TO FUCKING SAY IT AGAIN.
And you can tell me to shut up and leave subjects alone for Julies, but guess what, I’m to only constant thing she has in her life so YOU SHUT UT and do you know what she said to me (And I quote) “Sometimes I feel like mom doesn’t love me.”
SHES NINE!!! SHE DOES NOT NEED YOUR FUCKING BULLSHIT. SO I’M GOING TO BE HER BIG SISTER BECAUSE NEITHER OF YOU CAN GET YOUR HEAD OUT OF YOUR ASSES TO TALK TO US.
We don’t need fucking family therapy, we need parents.
And if that’s so hard for you, I hope one day I can be her official guardian, because I show her I love her and that’s more than either of you can say.
Do you even care, or have you been blinded by YOUR shitty childhoods to help us. This is the twenty first century, and she’s nine, she does not need to know what university she’s going to, she needs to have fun and play with her friends.
And thanks for all the help with all my shit. There's a very reason my self esteem in non-exist and I hate you guys almost as much as I hate myself.
Theres also a reason I’m venting to a fucking computer instead of you.
You. Don’t. Care.
Maybe you think you do, or maybe you act like you do because the truth is too hard to face.
But now I’m bitch-slapping you with the truth so you better grow up and handle it.
Thanks for making an twelve year old do the dishes and cook dinner. Thanks for making me into who I am, for fucking up my life, making me think you would KICK ME OUT OF THE FUCKING HOUSE IF I TOLD YOU I LIKE GIRLS. Thanks for making me think that you wouldn’t love me if I didn’t get good grades or if I quit swimming. Thanks for hating me anyways.
And I hope you realize all the shit I’ve dealt with.
And one day you better try doing fucking kumon and dealing with that bullshit when all you want it to puke your guts out and get rid of everything you’ve eaten that way.
I hope you get mad, I hope you hate me. I hope you take Julia’s advice and put me in foster care.
Because I’m so sick of dealing with your bullshit.
And if that makes me a bad daughter, well I’ll see you in hell.
Because neither of you put together can hate me more than I hate myself(That rivals my love of music for fucks sake).
So drop me off at the music store and never come back.
I don’t care regardless.