• somebody who looks like a children’s character.

    by  • September 7, 2010 • Anger, Children, Family Stuff, Friends, Guilt, Love - Pure and Simple, Parents, Resentment, Yearning for You • 1 Comment

    I figure the only people who would get who this is are in my English class, and I’m only friends with like 5 people in there so who cares. They probably won’t even know what I’m talking about, anyway.

    I’ll try not to ramble, because I’m so good at that, but there are a few people who I want to address but can’t do so in real life because of my crippling shyness, fear of rejection, and fear of retribution. I’m a very paranoid human being.

    To the woman who carried me in her tubes for 9 months and then pushed me out and stopped caring: You are not my mother. My grandmother is my mother. My boss is my mother. The woman who got me my job is my mother. My eleventh grade English teacher is my mother.

    Would you like to know how they are my mother? Let us start with my grandmother. From the time I was 3 weeks old she has always been there for me. She nurtured me, fed me, hugged me when I was hurt, took care of me when I was sick, and babysat me when you went on your fucking trips, which I am now half-convinced is where you probably started cheating on my dad, though I have no concrete proof that you actually are.

    She was the one that sat me down and made me do my homework. Actually, that’s what she did just now. Sat me down, all sixty-six inches and one hundred and fifty pounds of me, at the age of seventeen, a senior in high school, and made me do my homework. Not you. You never did. I was always on my own with you. And don’t you dare try to say that by the time I was home with you more often I was old enough to do it, because you let my little brother go the entire summer without having his homework done, and he’s just eight years old. You didn’t get my little sister her summer reading book and now I’m afraid she’s doomed to follow in my footsteps because the woman that owns the crotch she dropped out of didn’t care about her enough.

    Gramma gave me the benefit of the doubt when I was suspended from school for something I didn’t do. You did not. In fact, the first time I ever heard the term “benefit of the doubt” is when you told me you were having trouble giving me the benefit of the doubt.

    Gramma doesn’t drink. Only when we go out does she have a margarita. You pound at least two or three beers in a single night, and then you’re drunk nice to me and I’d rather you shout at me at that point because when you’re drunk nice I feel uncomfortable and I’d rather you just leave me alone forever.

    Gramma cooks. You don’t.

    Gramma cleans her house. You don’t, and then you throw a hissy fit when me and my sister don’t clean up your shit. It’s so fucking ridiculous.

    My boss listens to me. You don’t. She treats me like an equal. You don’t.

    Same with Debbie.

    You are a terrible human being. I kept wanting to give you the benefit of the doubt. I kept defending you.

    Your drinking is just out of fucking control, and so is your laziness.

    When you were gone for two weeks, you didn’t even call Daddy. Daddy said you didn’t love him. I believe him, but I pretended I didn’t because I didn’t want anymore drama. You create the drama.

    Your life was hard. You didn’t deserve to grow up in some Irish ghetto during the Troubles with bomb-sniffing robots and bombs hid in biscuit tins. You didn’t deserve two hard-drinking parents, a mother who died when you were nine, and a grandmother who beat you.

    But honestly, I don’t think that gave you any right to put me through hell I didn’t deserve. You passed your dirty, bipolar 1 genes to me. Nobody wants to admit you have a problem. I get that. Bipolar isn’t tangible or measurable. But I know, and my uncle knows better than anyone what you have because we both have it.

    But come on. Your alcoholism is like a fucking pregnant elephant in the room.

    You were never a mother. You were a leech. Daddy loved me. You didn’t.

    You broke my lifeline when it was the only friend I really had. You chased me up the stairs and pulled my hair and beat me over the head with your fists. You called me names. You made me clean up after you.

    Daddy says that me and my sister ruined our family. We didn’t. You did. He says want he wants to say to you, to us. I’m sick of it. Seventeen. Sick. Scusted.

    So I left. I left my baby brother there. I will be returning for him though. My sister is fifteen and too old to take. But he’ll be nine when I’m eighteen. Just to let you know.

    I’d be better for him anyway. Since I’m going to be a teacher I’ll always make sure his homework’s done.

    You have got my father so fucking whipped it’s pathetic, to the point where he chose a miserable shrew like you over daddy’s little girl, his firstborn girl.

    In short, I hope you die of alcohol poisoning and rot in hell you loud, filthy, dirty, degenerative hypocrite.

    The letter to my father is short. I just want him to know I love him and I am so sorry for reporting him to CPS in the 9th grade. I didn’t know what I was saying.

    Also, you’re taking the ninety dollars whether you want it or not, because I know you need it and it was bullshit that I had to take Physics in the first place because of your shrew wife.

    To my little brother:

    Remember that I will always love you even though I constantly leave you in that house. When I do that I’m being incredibly selfish and think only of my own survival, and it hurts me so badly. Zefrank’s Chillout song is supposed to make me, well, chillout.

    But I cry because the little kid sounds exactly like you, John.

    Anyway, hopefully when you get a little older you’ll realize that your mother is a psycho / sociopath and a miserable bitch. If Daddy’s gone of a broken heart or lung cancer or his blood clot, and if Nana’s gone of her myriad of illnesses and grandpa’s forced into a home or something, I will be there to raise you to be the best man you can be.

    Gramma and Grandpa know how I feel because I actually have the freedom to tell them whenever I want.

    To a girl I pretend to be friends with but really I just want to tear her fucking vocal chords out tru fax:

    God, fuck you. Seriously. Fuck you and fuck your pathetic existence. You are the most annoying person I know. It is so fucking ridiculous how annoying you are.

    You wanna know why I became friends with you in the eighth grade? It was because I was just as, if not MORE annoying (if that’s even possible) as you are.

    You and your fairies. God damn, you’re just an older version of what I was in the 6th grade. Pathetic, annoying, hating things just because they’re mainstream, loudly hating on things because it makes you feel edgy, loudly proclaiming your love for Staind and Skillet and your other shit fucking bands that make your fake emptiness go away.

    Making inappropriate (like past a 12 year old boy, more into creepy) sexual jokes when you’re probably going to be a virgin for the rest of your life unless you have a one night stand with some LARPer and then kill yourself with pills over the regret.

    Then you’ll probably feel emptiness, because you’ll have puked up your innards. All tasteless jokes aside, though, this will probably happen.

    Like today, when I demonstrated a need to rid myself of the orange soda knight by doing to a young man what he did to me when he was a senior and I was just a naive sophomore.

    You simplified it so much. You don’t know what you’re fucking talking about, shut the fuck up.

    It wasn’t just to give a sophomore or junior boy with no real connection or knowledge of the real world a real women his “first time”. That’s archaic.

    It was to make him believe that I held the key to the world, that I had my finger on the pulse of humanity, that I could break him just as easily as I could be broken, that I could twist him just as badly as I had been twisted.

    Of course it would be just about the sex to you. You don’t fucking get, because you might as well be eleven years old, because that’s how old you act.

    I could forgive all of this so easily if you didn’t pretend that your life has meaning because you’re “passive aggressive” and you “probably need meds or something”.

    That’s when I want to throw you off the third floor of the old building. Fuck you, you will never understand it. You will never understand real passive-aggression, or the real need for meds in your fucking stupid head because your stupid head is full of fairies and Twilight and fucking Cardcaptor Sakura, and your stupid jokes, and things that were funny when we were thirteen but are no longer funny.

    The boys got rid of you as a friend for a reason. Since I’m female and inherently more compassionate, it’s been harder for me to shake you.

    I’m just about there, you fucking waste of a human being.

    You’re not edgy. You’re a fucking child.

    To my best friend:

    You really are my best friend in the world. No pretension, no inflation, no exaggeration. You’re like my sister. You’re the first person I feel entirely comfortable with informing that I have my period. That’s a deep connection right there.

    You’re the one I want to live with when I’m older, along with Bear.

    I just have to know if you feel like that about me. I know Katy’s there and other people are there but I wanna know if you’re just giving me the runaround and just telling me what I want to hear.

    If you’re gonna dump me after we graduate, I wanna know now so that I don’t waste my time looking for a shitty apartment.

    You really are my BFF, though.

    To my other best friend (the one I love so much that I don’t even want to fuck him, I just want him to hold me):

    It is so hard.

    It’s been hard since summer started and we started really really talking.

    I can’t pinpoint the moment that I was in love with you, that this was more than just “Hey, if he wants to then we can do stuff but whatever, he’s just cute”.

    I’ll never be able to pinpoint it because my brain moves too fast, but I’ll tell you what. At least seventy percent of my waking thoughts are devoted to you and a lot of my sleep is, too.

    This is my subconscious. The thing I can’t control, that if I could I would do everything I can to rid myself of this impure thing because I don’t want to ruin our friendship to be destroyed by it.

    Everything up until this point has been monstrously different. The first three were in my imagination, the next one was another friendship that didn’t become awkward because in truth I really didn’t care about the outcome.

    You already know the story of the last one. The Orange Soda Knight.

    You’re his polar opposite. Respectful to women, unconcerned with sex (in fact, you’d rather wait until marriage which somehow had the opposite affect it usually has on me), sweet, kind, a good listener, a nondrinker, calm, fragile, beautiful, wonderful.

    I would have probably told you all of this already if it wasn’t for your girlfriend.

    I don’t dislike her. You know that. I became friends with her when she stopped hating me. You know that.

    I dislike how she treats you. You know that. You don’t know that I believe I can do better, but you at least know that I think she is a terrible girlfriend for you.

    I’m not even really obsessed with you in a stalkerish manner. We talk all the time because we’re best friends. No, it’s just this thing is eating me.

    I’m trying to brush the guilt and longing and hormones off with saying I need more diss-kipp-rin, dammit, that this is just like my overwhelming inability to get homework done.

    This can be cured by forcing myself to get up and type, apparently, just like homework.

    Except wait, no it can’t. It’s just gonna get bigger and bigger and bigger until I either overdose on Tylenol and Johnny W and my liver falls out of my crotch or something, or I tell you and risk killing 3 friendships and possibly a relationship and possibly causing a homicide because your girlfriend will seriously cut me.

    It’s going to have to come out at some point. It’s becoming a cancer. It needs to be cut out or it needs to be treated.

    Cutting it out would probably kill me, and the treatment isn’t expensive but it can only be taken by one person at a time and someone’s already using it.

    It’s so hard. It’s harder than anything, ever. Harder than sitting in therapy with the woman that pushed me out of her diseased uterus trying to come up with one thing I like about her when I was twelve.

    The hardest part is the boldfaced lying, which has got to me that I’m in bizarro world or something. Lying is like breathing to me, or at least it used to be.

    I would never lie to you about anything except this. I would never lie to anyone about anything except this.

    Especially when she hated me and I had to say so explicitly, quote unquote “I have no romantic intentions with you.” That was like taking a sewing kit and shoving all the needles in the same place in the pit of my stomach and shoving them up through my heart. I hated that and every situation like it.

    I hate the guilt just as badly. I really do like her, and I really do want to be friends with her. But I love her boyfriend at the same time. I am a terrible friend and should be executed by firing squad.

    I hate that you might think I was friends with you the whole time so I could get in your pants. You have the distinct honor of being the only exception to this pattern I have. I’m not the vampire for Chrissake.

    This is so ridiculous. If I could love any other person on this planet I would.

    My heart and my head chose you. I know why, I just don’t want to know why.

    I can’t have this one thing I want.

    You’re never going to break up with her because your relationship so totally mirrors my father and his bitch wife.

    Other girls like you, which makes this even worse because if you and your girlfriend break up I don’t know how much space to give you because I am so terrified you’ll be taken by someone else.

    I’ll probably be a spinster because of this, or go back to the Orange Soda Knight and have seven children and become a housewife and lose the rest of the dreams and ambitions that my father’s shrew missed when ruining me.

    But I would really love a happy ending this time. I should send this letter to Santa, maybe.

    To his girlfriend:

    If you and my best friend break up and my life starts working out and we get together, please don’t hate me because I really do like you to. You’re a sweet girl. You care about him very much. I just wish you showed it better and didn’t try to control every aspect of his life. But you are very nice, very sweet, and very smart and I can’t stand this backstabbing feeling that I have that I’m betraying you so badly.

    To all of these people: Remember it was my shyness and my fear of awkward situations that made me a writer.

    One Response to somebody who looks like a children’s character.

    1. Leila Mae
      September 7, 2010 at 5:23 pm

      You are a fantastic writer, although I am so sad for you that your own parents don’t seem to give a rat’s ass about you. However, the dedication that you have to your little brother is really sweet [: Things will look up eventually, I promise.

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