Help me, I screamed.

For days.

For weeks.

For months

For years.

For decades.

For infinity. 

I cried so many tears.

So many.

Too many. 

Until it hurt.

Until it crushed me.

Until it smothered me. 

Until I gave up. 

I needed your voice. 

The sound of it. 

The smile it brought to my face.

The warmth it made me feel.

The love it made me expel. 

What I needed most was your touch. 

The touch that cured diseases.

That cured my broken heart.

My broken soul. 

My broken being. 

I couldn’t get your laugh out of my head.

It was malicious. 

Terrifying. 

Murderous. 

Dripping with complete and utter hate. 

I know it wasn’t what you were doing. 

But that’s what it felt like. 

It’s what I truly believed.

What I saw in my mind’s eye. 

What I worshiped like a deceitful god. 

Help me, I begged. For days. 

For weeks.

For months.

For years.

For decades.

For infinity. 

But nothing ever worked.

God, I was so broken. 

Why couldn’t you lend your hand? 

It’s my wedding day. I’m exhausted. I’m in over my fucking head. My husband-to-be is really fucking hot. He’s too good for me. I want him to leave me at the fucking alter. Is that bad? I really hope it isn’t.

I just know I don’t deserve this shit. I don’t deserve this fucking life.

I kicked a dog once. Yeah. A fucking dog. The thing was annoying the hell out of me, so I gave it a little love tap and the fucker yelped as if I dropped kicked it. I might as well have. Because it’s a fucking dog and I know better than to kick a dog. Any decent human being knows that.

But, that’s not all. I just don’t deserve him, okay? He’s so god damn nice all the time. He went to Africa when he was sixteen and hasn’t stopped since. He goes there all the fucking time. To help people. He’s traveled to remote fucking villages. He almost got one of his beautiful fucking arms chopped off too and the fucking angel STILL went back. I mean, shit. I won’t ever go to Africa. There are bugs there the size of my fucking head.

I guess that means I’m an awful fucking person. I am, I really am. I can’t help myself, though. I love the beautiful bastard, okay? I just love him to fucking death. He makes me feel like I can be a better person. And, other than kicking a dog and never wanting to travel to Africa to help people, I feel like I am. When I’m with him, that is. That’s what matters, right? Having someone who makes you better a better person. Who the hell knows? Maybe I will travel to Africa with him someday. That asshole might change my mind. Part of me hopes he does. 

Because that fucker is stuck with me forever. And I know I won’t be able to put up with his nice bullshit if I’m not doing it too. So, here goes. I’m going to walk down that fucking isle and let a bunch of people see me weep like a little bitch because I just love my man so damn much. 

To the future bride who finds this note lodged in this bible I found, I wish you the happiest of fucking weddings. And don’t you worry. You’re fucking beautiful AND your husband (or wife) loves you so god damn much. 

“Today, time trickled triumphantly through the tumbling turpentine that tells this trickster’s troubles to…no one of value.” 

Margaret crossed out the first sentence of her book, only to realize that it wasn’t much of a book considering all it had was a title. She mentally gave herself a pat on the back to stop herself from getting discouraged. Besides, most authors start off their books with a title. The story follows thereafter. Why did she find herself so distraught? Everything was going to go just as she had planned. She just needed some more patience. Plus some more coffee. Luckily, the cafe she was sitting in had plenty of that, especially for aspiring authors. 

Pretty, petite and pale Margaret hadn’t always wanted to become an author. For a long time, she had wanted to become a pastry chef. After watching too much of the Food Network, she decided to ditch her overdone dream and try for something more simple: she had decided to become a lawyer. By the time she turned thirty, she realized that she hated her life, her job, and her mother’s messages telling Margaret that she was sixty-two and was going to die soon, so she really wanted to see that Margaret at least had a husband. Though, Margaret was very glad that her mother stopped bringing up her having kids since, according to her mother, “that ship had sailed and sunk faster than the Titanic.” What Margaret’s mother didn’t know was that Margaret couldn’t have kids even if she had wanted to. Instead of making her mother feel bad about teasing her, Margaret figured that what she didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her. What her mother also didn’t know was that Brad, the guy she was supposed to eventually marry, walked out on her four months ago. Was it bad that in some ways Margaret wanted her mother to feel a bit of remorse for those pesky messages? She couldn’t figure that out. 

If someone asked her why she suddenly decided to become an author, Margaret would answer that she liked it because it was an easy failure. She would explain that when you tell people you’re an author who hasn’t gotten any of their work published, it’s easy to understand why you haven’t gotten anything published. You know, because there are so many other talented writers out there, none of the publishers give you the time of day, you’re suffering from severe writer’s block, your boyfriend of six years just left you because you can’t have kids, your now ex-boyfriend basically took all of the money you had saved up, you can’t pay your rent anymore so you’re mostly living out of your car and shower at the gym so people don’t realize you’re homeless, the life you’re living isn’t the one you had envisioned when you were ten, when you were young, when you were so god damn naive. People get that, even without you having to give them specifics. That’s why Margaret suddenly decided to become an author. She credited herself for having such precise reasons. It would help to make her a better writer, she hoped. 

She gnawed on her pen as she scowled at the mostly empty journal before her. For the past few hours, she had been trying to not despise herself, but it was getting more and more difficult not to. That feeling of uselessness would not stop picking at her numb brain. Maybe it was good that she could still feel something. Lately, she had been going through a lot. She sighed and grabbed her coffee cup so she could go throw it out just so she could have something to do. Her feet shuffled across the coffee shop to the trash can and shuffled half way back to her table before she noticed a man stealing her purse, her notebook and even her mutilated pen. Without even thinking, Margaret grabbed a sugar dispenser and hurled it at the thief who was still looking around for her wallet. The people in the coffee shop finally saw what was happening and gasped. Margaret continued to throw other potentially threatening objects at the thief until he stumbled backwards and broke a table in half. She approached the man slowly and finally crouched down beside him. Clutched to his chest, using it as a shield, her journal rose and fell with his short breaths. All Margaret could do was chuckle as he attempted to hand the journal back to her. She pushed it back down at him because, at that moment, everything became crystal clear.

“No thanks,” she said. “You keep it. I think I’ll try becoming a police officer instead.” 

With that, Margaret walked out of that coffee shop with her keys, her nearly empty wallet and an almost complete certainty that law enforcement would last her a solid fifteen years before she ached for a change. It was all she could ever hope for. It was all she could ever want.  

When I was nine, I was peer pressured into shoplifting. Before that moment, I had never pegged myself off as the type of person who’d follow, but you can’t plan for the idiot stick to smack you in the face. Quite frankly, I didn’t want to get stuffed in another cubby. I mean, have you ever gotten yourself stuffed in a cubby? That cute name isn’t appealing once you’re pushed in between two pieces of wood with your backpack and your lunchbox. What I’m trying to get at is: cubbies suck and I really wanted to hop off the loser bus by any means necessary.

After being dropped off at my friend’s house, Nikki and I rode our bikes to the Ben Franklin’s Craft Store a couple blocks away. We parked our bikes and walked towards the store, but before entering, I was tugged backwards. Nikki stared into my eyes and whispered:

“Follow my lead.”

I scowled and nodded even though I had no idea what she was talking about. Not having many friends, I decided it would be worse to question what she meant. I was right to think so too. After having kids of my own, I’ve come to realize what little bastards other kids can be. Nikki was what I now classify as an “attention-seeking twat.” She couldn’t help it. If there’s anything else I’ve noticed, it’s that people usually get the twat germ at some point in their lives. I’ve always thought it was best to have it when you’re young, when you can blame it on adolescence. If you have it when you’re my age, you’re just a flat out asshole.

Nikki smirked at me and opened the door, letting me walk in first. I waited for her to enter and began following her as she walked up and down each isle. After going up and down four, she stopped and spun around. Quietly, she asked:

“Do you have big pockets?”

Looking back, I wonder if Nikki realized how ridiculous that question sounded. I wonder if she had thought the entire bike ride to the store of what question to ask me. Maybe she thought it was clever? I’ve never been able to figure it out. Regardless, I hope that nine-year-old Nikki thought she was cunning because she sure as hell boggled me for a good moment.

Before I could process what she had just asked and why she asked it, she grabbed my pants by the belt loops, stuck one hand in my pocket to make it bigger, and started stuffing packages of clay in it. My jaw dropped and I started to back away, but she grasped my pants tightly. Through clenched teeth, she said:

“What do you think you’re doing? Are you stupid?”

I didn’t know how to answer her. Was I stupid? What was I doing? My parents had told me that what Nikki was doing wasn’t right. In fact, I knew what Nikki was doing was truly not okay. Ever since I could, I had been reading books about heroines sending thieves to jail. I was supposed to be the heroine of my own book, the book of my life. Who was I if I was simply going to allow Nikki to take advantage of my stupidity?  For a whole minute, I stood there with my mouth hanging open, while Nikki scowled at me. Finally, I closed my mouth, bit my bottom lip and nodded at her. I was stupid. I was the bad guy. Someone else was going to have to be the heroine because, at that moment, it certainly wasn’t me. I croaked:

“Go ahead, its fine.”

Nikki smirked and continued stuffing my pockets. I felt defeated, but I hid my feelings. I didn’t want her to think I was a sissy for not doing as she told me. Wanting to be popular, wanting to have friends, were those things so outlandish to want? I told myself that if I did this, I’d be like them; they’d be my friends. I knew that I wanted nothing more than to be accepted because I thought it’d make me happy. Boy, was I wrong. Naturally, I don’t blame myself for thinking all of that. I was impressionable, I was lonely, and I was a good kid who just wanted to finally be noticed. Who’s to say that good kids don’t sometimes do bad things?

My pockets began to bulge to a noticeable state. Nikki patted them and then my shoulders. She looked into my eyes once again and said quietly:

“Go outside, grab the bikes.”

I nodded slowly and walked out of the isle. While my back was turned to Nikki, I let tears flow down my face. I can honestly say that I have never felt so defeated as I did in that moment. The enemy had won and I hadn’t even put up a fight. But, who was I kidding? I was no match for Adolf Nikki and her aura of popularity. Or so I thought, at the time.

A woman behind the check-out counter looked at me and asked:

“Dear, what’s wrong?”

I shook my head and said nothing. The door was only two steps away. The woman tapped her fingers on the counter and sighed heavily. She said kindly:

“I hope you figure it out, honey. You sure break someone’s heart when you cry.”

For whatever reason, I turned and looked at her. I could hear Nikki cough in the background. Glaring at the floor, I walked up to the counter. I tilted my head up so I could see her face better, but I glanced at her nametag: Linda. I remember thinking that I wished Linda would smack me across the face. For some reason, Linda was a sign that I shouldn’t be stealing anything, ever. Unfortunately, I ignored that sign. Shakily, I asked:

“Do you have a lot of friends?”

Linda smiled sweetly and answered:

“Not really, but the ones I do have are the best.”

I nodded and backed away from the counter. My head pounded and my heart kept doing flips. Wiping the tears from my eyes, I smiled and then turned toward the door once again. The closer I walked to it, the more my head ached. I thought for sure an alarm was going to go off or Linda would notice my pockets, but nothing happened as I pushed the door open and walked outside. Quickly, I ran to the bikes and emptied my pockets over Nikki’s bike. Grabbing mine, I whispered softly:

“Do you have big pockets?”

I rode off, leaving all hope of popularity amongst the pile of clay. In a way, it was a romantic scene: I was riding my bike through my heavily wooded neighborhood with a smile on my face. Finally, I had stood up for myself and it felt good. Too bad the scene died a miserable death when I became very lost and couldn’t figure out which way to turn to get home. I ended up at a gas station and had to use a pay phone, which meant having to explain to my mom why I was at a gas station. When I told her what had happened, she didn’t speak to me for a week. Hoping to get back on her good side, I called the store and gave them Nikki’s number and apologized for her moronic nature. Roy wanted me to come in, but that didn’t seem like a good idea, so I hung up right away after that.

I’m almost confident that Nikki found out I ratted on her because the next day at school, I went from being tolerable to a diseased rat. I’m also almost confident that around that same time, I figured out that I was going to be okay. Because hey, who really gives a damn if I didn’t have a fantastic childhood? It’s no dirt off my shoulders, that’s for sure. Besides, I feel like my two beautiful kids, my smoking hot husband and my book deal make up for any slumber parties I might’ve missed. 

I’ve been suffering from severe writer’s block. Why is that? A million thoughts flood my brain everyday, yet I can’t manage to write them all down. Then again, what’s the point? I’m only good at writing about what I know. I wasn’t always like that, of course. It was this friend of my dad’s that told me otherwise. He said I was in over my head as a young writer, writing about time travel and people with super powers. What did I know about those things? The only information I knew were the facts that I made up myself. But, wasn’t that good enough? For little inspired me? I thought so. I hoped so. I begged for it to be so.

Unfortunately, that’s when the curse of his words sunk in. I could no longer write anything fictitious. It’s like being rendered unconscious. I was in some nowhere world, telling all my nowhere plans to nobody. I had all of these ideas for bad guys and vigilantes, drug deals and mutants, futuristic time zones and two people in love. But they were all stuck. They wouldn’t flow out of my fingers any longer. They’ve become prisoners in my own head. I just hope that someday they’ll be cunning enough to break free.

To the aspiring writer, don’t let your dad’s colleague tell you to write what you know. If you need to research in order to get a better understanding of what you’re going to write, do it. But keep your imagination alive. Don’t allow it to hibernate, not for one second. Be that man’s wife who smacked her husband and looked you in the eyes and said, “Young lady, you listen to me and never forget this: you know it all, so the sky is the limit. Write what your heart tells you to write. My husband forgets what it was like to be a fantastic writer, but you have such a promising future ahead of you. So reach for the galaxies that only you know of. Grasp it all. Be phenomenal.” Do just that, even if you forget about it for a while. When the inspiration comes back, it’ll be well worth the wait. Believe me. I would know.

If you have not read prior chapters of A Typical Book and would like to, please click the links below: 

Prologue: Will We. 

Chapter One: The Fathered Who Never Fathered His Youngest Daughter Well. 

Chapter Two: The Mother Who Never Relaxed And Talked About Money Problems Too Often To Her Baby Girl. 

Chapter Three: The Sisters That Never Enjoyed Their Kid Sister Until She Was Older. 

Your parents are divorced and you have two “alternative” older sisters who blessed you with an obscure sense of humor. Your mom is pretty broke (though, she would be better off if she would stop getting her nails done every week), so you don’t always have all the clothes that are considered cool. Your hair is long like Rapunzel’s, which means it’s always knotted and very wild. Your nose is always stuck in a book, usually literally because the books you read are normally bigger than your little head. What’s more is, you still think you are going to lead a normal, uneventful, easy life. 

Every first day of school is exactly the same. You bond with someone for that day and then you’re nothing to them once they figure out they have a better friend in their class. You always shrug it off, tell yourself that you’ll find a real friend, a true friend. You’ll find two, actually. The three of you will become a crime stopping trio or something like that. That’s how it is in your books. That’s what it is suppose to be like in real life. Since all fiction is based off of reality in some way shape or form. Right? Right. But then you find yourself not only lonely for a day, but the entire week. And the week following that. And so on. Still, you never lose hope. Why you never do is a mystery to us all. 

One day, you’re reading a book destined for high schoolers while listening to Phish, when some kids accidentally hits you in the head with a four square ball. After you regain your posture, you toss the ball back to them. You know the kids. They’re in your class. You yearn to be with them. In fact, you’ve tried very hard to be with them. Except this day, you’ve just given up. Looking over the top of your book, you see them whispering about you. Your mouth becomes as dry as a desert. What could they be talking about? Your big book? Your poorly braided hair? Your clothes that your mom got you for Christmas that you loved when you saw them, but hated them once you got to school and saw what the other kids were wearing? What? One of the kids waves an arm at you. Your book is down in your lap so fast, you may have just broken some form of a record. The kid shouts, “You should probably move. The ball might hit you again. Sorry.” You nod. You move. You tell yourself that it is nice that they said sorry. Then you hide yourself behind the pages of your large book somewhere far away from all of the kids and let tears stream down your face. But, don’t worry. You’re not broken. You’re merely discouraged. Broken comes about much later in life. 

There’s this one time you come back from recess and your teacher beckons you towards her desk. She informs you that a desk has been vandalized and feels like you have something to do with it. Her exact words are, “I’m asking you because the other girls who come here during lunch would never do that.” And you don’t think about it until years later, but somewhere deep in your subconscious you are yelling, “WHAT HAVE I EVER DONE TO MAKE YOU THINK THAT I WOULD DO IT?” All you say at the time is that you have no idea who did it, but you have nothing to do with the desecration of the desks. Your teacher makes you clean the mess up anyway. The girls, the ones who go up to the classroom during lunch to bring up the baskets that everyone puts their lunch boxes in, laugh at you loudly. Their laugh haunts you when you go home that day and it’s then that you feel your first thought of suicide. Mom asks you what’s wrong and you tell her nothing. The thought is dashed. 

It’s truly unfortunate, but you never feel the same after that incident. Your brain doesn’t work as well anymore. While suicide hangs over you, you can never think straight. You are such a smart kid. Eventually, you are going to save the world. It’s too bad you don’t see that right away. From your pain and your misery, sprang a new talent that you’ll cherish forever, fortunately. Since you come home so angry all of the time and have no one to talk to, you write it down. On printer paper, on napkins, on paper towels. Your mom notices and buys you a diary. So, you write and you write and you write some more. You never stop writing. Never. Know that. Remember that. Keep that thought safe. Because it’s why you don’t die when you cave in to suicide. It’s one of the five reasons you decide to live. And as for the other four, don’t worry. We still have time before we get to those. 

Today I found out that I got the job of my dreams. Have you ever literally thrown up because you’re so excited? I have. I can seriously write a book about throwing up from excitement, that’s how many times I spewed. They called me up and told me, “Hey! Congrats! You got the position!” And I was barely able to manage a, “Oh my goodness, are you serious?!?!” when I started throwing up. They heard it. They heard it all. Every slosh. Every gag. All of it. Luckily I had been in the bathroom putting on my make up when they called. Otherwise, my bedroom rug would’ve been a goner. Of course, they were nice about the whole thing. I offered the job back to them if they had second thoughts. They laughed and said no, but said they’d call back later because they had a few people that they still needed to call. Then they hung up. 

My jaw wasn’t touching the ground, it was right where it should be. I had this stupid smile on my face, though. Then I was laughing a lot. I’m sure I looked like a total psycho, but I didn’t care. I just simply didn’t care because I was so incredibly ecstatic. I finished up doing my make up and I left for work right away. My co-worker left in a hurry, but it didn’t matter to me because I would spend the alone time in the store calling my friends, letting them in on the great news. The life-changing news. But then I kept staring at my phone and I couldn’t figure out who to call. There was no one. Seriously. Absolutely no one. And you have to understand how incredibly alone I felt at that moment. Because, there I was, standing behind the counter at work, phone in hand, realizing how incredibly lonely I was. I was staring at my phone, crying, and it hurt. It hurt so much, too much. I mean, I should have people to call, to text, to fucking send an e-mail too, but I didn’t, did I? 

Would you believe me if I told you that no one asked me how my day was? If they had asked, I would’ve told them right away. But, it was kind of like when I found out might’ve had breast cancer three years ago and I told a friend about it and then they never bothered to ask how I was following the day the tests were inconclusive. Maybe I’ve always just been selfish about this stuff, but I don’t think I am. You know, about wanting people to ask me about my fucking day. Considering I always ask people about theirs. Then maybe I’ll slack off and won’t ask for a while and they’ll bitch about me not being up to their standards. Well, fuck them. Fuck all of them. I’m worth listening to for five goddamn minutes, okay? And I can’t help it that I’m upset, or that I’m acting like the world revolves around me, but I can’t feel bad for wanting to bitch about feeling bad all the time. And maybe this is what life is all about. Finding out that sometimes you need to move on in order to find something better. A better place to live, a better job, and better friends. Who knows. Hopefully I’ll figure it out. 

The Beginning: 

We’ll kiss and dance and sing in the pouring rain and hate it since neither of us like getting wet, but we’ll keep doing it all since we’re so in love. Let’s hate the fact that we couldn’t see one another until work ended and had to wait for the bus to show up. Together, we’ll walk hand-in-hand to a happier place, our much-too-small apartment, and collapse on our mattress that has more than one spring popping out of it. I will tell you all about my day and let you interrupt me with jokes and kisses. Once I’m finished, I’ll ask you about yours and all you’ll say is that you did nothing, except think about me. You’ll turn off the light, we’ll strip off our clothes, and well, you know the rest. 

The Middle: 

The bus taking too long doesn’t bother us as much, but we’ll still kiss and dance and sing in the street on our way home because we think we’re still in love. We don’t mind so much that work separated us for so long, but we’ll pretend like it did. Our apartment has begun to look dingier than ever, but we’ll still smile strained smiles at one another as we’ll toss our things aside and sit down on our broken mattress. You’ll ask me about my day and I’ll tell you, but you’ll rarely interrupt me. I’ll ask you about yours and you’ll say it was fine. This won’t make you want to kiss me. We’ll get up from the bed, put on our pajamas, get back in the bed, turn off the light and well, you know the rest. 

The End: 

The bus is a rolling oasis. It has turned into our much needed vacation. When it stops and we see each other, we walk in silence to our apartment, our shit hole. There are boxes everywhere. Most are yours because I let you decorate the apartment, which is probably why I hated it so much. You’ll go to the couch and fluff up your pillow. Your pajamas are on the table next to you, so you’ll grab them and change in the bathroom. It was nice that you let me sleep on the now entirely broken mattress, dick head. You were never that considerate. I’ll walk into our bare room, collapse onto the shitty mattress without putting on my pajamas, turn off the lights, and well, you know the rest. 

If you have not read prior chapters of A Typical Book and would like to, please click the links below: 

Prologue: Will We. 

Chapter One: The Father Who Never Fathered His Youngest Daughter Well. 

Chapter Two: The Mother Who Never Relaxed And Talked About Money Problems Too Often To Her Baby Girl. 

Read More

If you haven’t read a part of A Typical Book and would like to catch up, please click the links below: 

Prologue: Will We. 

Chapter One: The Father Who Never Fathered His Youngest Daughter Well. 

Mom loves to tell you about how you broke her back when she was pregnant with you. She tells you that once, she had to sit on a swing set for forty minutes because you had tired her out so much and the swing set was the only available place left to sit. Her smiles widens as she mentions the little girl who walked up to her and asked her if she would like to get pushed. Mom loves kids, so she says sure. With all of her might, the little girl pushed Mom back and forth until they were both laughing so hard that they were in tears. She says the girl’s name was Bianca. That’s why your middle name is Bianca. It was a sign. 

That silly superstitious woman sees a lot of signs. Whether it be a leaf falling on the path she should walk down, or a lipstick stain on your dad’s shirt collar, she sees signs everywhere. They make her worry too much. Since she depends on signs so often, they dictate her life. Mom has always been the type of woman who needs someone to lead her. She just never admits it. When she and Dad divorce, you can tell it takes a lot out of her. Lately, her signs are actual signs. Bar signs to be exact. She stumbles home, sometimes a man helps her to the door. They never come inside because you hear her tell them that she has three kids. This depresses her because that means she has to keep searching. She has to keep making her own decisions. 

You’re nine and you come across Mom’s diary. A lot of it is just numbers. They’re her planning out the month to see how you and her will make it through. It scares you, so you close it, but you visit it often to see if she will write something down. When she does, you wish you hadn’t read it. She talks about how she can never calm down, that she’s looking over her shoulder for Death to come rescue her. She says you will be better off with your dad, but you know that’s not true. Mom is the thought that has kept you alive through all the bullying you endure at school. She is the light at the end of the tunnel. You think that she doesn’t love you. This is why you start to fight with her. It’s this diary entry that haunts you for the rest of your life. 

Child Support is always the top topic around the house when you turn twelve. Dad never pays your mom, so she gets all bent out of shape about it. You hear her rant about him to your step-dad and suddenly you feel divided. This is when you start reading more and more books and do your best to escape. It doesn’t help because once you’re alone with her, she’ll tell you how broke you both are. How she needs to save money so you all can eat. All the while, you notice her looking over her shoulder, calling out for Death with her eyes. For three whole years, you are convinced you dislike your mom. You want nothing to do with her or your father when you’re older. You don’t dream about getting married and falling in love, you dream about leaving. Whether it be the world or the town, you just need to leave. 

Yet you’re stuck. She never pushed you to try hard in school. You get accepted into two colleges, neither of which you like. It’s your own fault, but you blame your mom. You have talent that some people can only dream of having and you’re sitting at home, wasting away. Expressing to her how much you love the organization you want to work for is like pulling teeth. Nothing makes sense to her. You begin to doubt her intelligence, but you hate yourself for thinking of her so poorly. She sacrificed so much for you and you think about her like that? You think you’re a monster. But, you can’t blame yourself. Because of her, you find yourself oddly dependent on men, so that’s why you never date. Because of her, you needed to grow up so quickly. Because of her, all you think about is saving money since “you don’t have any.” You have plenty of money. It’s hidden everywhere. You are just programed to think you’re broke. 

It’s why you have a few wrinkles here and there. It’s why you choose to not go out sometimes. It’s why you resent your mom so much, the very woman who has helped you through so much. Still, you hate how she hardly tells you she loves you since you think that’s what a mom should say whenever you leave the house. You hear your friend’s parents say that they love their kids so why shouldn’t your mother say the same to you? You’re so completely bitter with life. You’re too young to be bitter. Except, bitterness floats around you all day, everyday. How can you not be? You want to know.