The Tale of Braveheart… the Fish

Instead of working on my homework that I will have absolutely no time for next week, I am going to be a bad student today and tell you about the recent goings on in my life. First of all, spring break was last week. Guess what I did! I stayed here, in UniverCity and worked with MS, while training for the DA internship that I might not even get. Yes, I know I keep tacking that last bit on, just to keep my hopes from rising to a level where it will suck if I get rejected. Because of this training, I have learned more about domestic violence, sexual assault, murder, and victim psychology then I ever thought I would need to/want to know. I was fingerprinted for the first time (and I think they smudged the last bit, so I might need to run out to the sheriff's office one day, you know, 20 miles from my house with no car, to do it over again. I have also been forced to confront the demons that have been hiding inside me about my own sexual assault. And on top of all this, the hardest part of this job, I can't share with anyone else, and that is the stories. The stories about the victims. I nearly started crying in my training the other day because of one of the stories, because I could picture my mom in the place of the victim, saying the same thing. It's hard to listen to, and it's confidential. Ruff stuff.

So now it's the weekend. I've been making up for the tough stuff (you know in the Chicken Soup for the Soul books, how they always have a section on tough stuff? Yeah, most of the victim stories about the cases belong in that section) by eating pizza, watching movies and House marathons, and buying a fish. That's right. A fish. His name is Braveheart and I got him yesterday at the pet store for 27¢. Mhm, 27/100 of a dollar. Including his bowl and water conditioner and everything, he actually probably cost me more along the lines of about 20 bucks, but I think he was a worthy investment.

A couple of weeks ago, I was Stumbling on the internet with StumbleUpon and I came across a quote from Carl Jung that depression can be treated by caring for something that is living. At the time, I was feeling like crap, partially because I've been having issues with self-worth and how that correlates to friendship, and the perception of how others view the self. Anyway, I stumbled upon this, and thought that maybe a pet would be an automatic friend, someone I can talk to and tell all my thoughts and fears to, when in all actuality, it would be me talking to myself, and processing my own thoughts aloud to an animate object that can't actually understand me. So his name is Braveheart.

Originally, I was going to get a beta. I like betas. They're beautiful, you can keep them in a small bowl, and you rarely have to change the water. You don't need a filter or air bubbles for them. They are simple creatures. When I got to the pet store, I found a beta that I liked: a beautiful grey-ish blue with bright blue where his fins attached to his body, and red at the tips of his fins. He was absolutely gorgeous. Then I noticed that there was a hole in the top of the container that he was in; a hard plastic container, like something that you would purchase the employee-made potato salad in at Safeway. This kind of container is not something that would be conducive to keeping a fish alive for an hour on a bumpy bike ride home. So I rethought my purchase a little. Should I come back on a day when I can catch a bus here, or when I can get a ride? Do I really need a pet? I guess not, but I really want one, and I really want to get it tod—ooh goldfish! Oh my gosh, they're 14 times less expensive than the beta! But a beta is prettier. But I can get a goldfish home safer if they put them in one of those plastic bags that they give you at the fair when you win the coin toss. But goldfish are so common. But betas aren't really active. I really wish I could have a hamster, but I don't think it would be easy to hide it and what if it escaped like Snowball did that one time, and someone found out about it and told MS? I think she's be pretty upset about a rodent. But goldfish only come in one color—wait, no they don't! They have grey ones in the tank too!

Anyway, the debate in my head went on like this for awhile, and I did seriously consider a hamster as another option. I finally asked an employee to explain what I need for a basic tank for a goldfish, my mind not quite made up yet. I finally put away the beautiful beta, and asked the man who was helping me to get a fish out of the tank. He asked if there was a specific one that I wanted. I didn't really care, they looked all the same to me, until I saw him. The pretty white goldfish with the orange on the top of his head and a spot on the top of his fin. The associate fished (insert repressed amused snort here) my fish out of the tank, and deposited him into the bag (score!) that would be his home for the next 3-4 miles, the next 45 minutes, which might have been the worst of his life. I had all the equipment (which included two pounds of gravel (black, to accent his white color), a tank that I had thriftily purchased at the thrift store next door, a small plant, water conditioner and treatment, and fish food, along with the stuff that I had brought with me) in my bag, which was quite heavy, and the fish in the bag the pet store gave me (because it gave me a little more to hold onto than the bag he was housed in). I figured he would get squished if I put him in my purse with the other stuff, so I held onto him the whole ride home. I'm sure he was traumatized by the motion of the ocean in the bag, so when we got home, I made him comfortable right away. So comfortable, in fact, that he stopped moving for the rest of the day. I thought he was dead.

Later in the evening, I fed him a little when he started moving again, and he got quite active. Now he's moving and swimming and cute, and hence the name Braveheart. I think if he wasn't brave, he wouldn't have made it, and I would be flushing Braveheart and going back to the pet store on Thursday to get another 27 cent fish. Hell, I still might go back to get another one. Forget what the man said about one fish per gallon. I'm sure two fish will be fine in my tank.

I told my mom that I bought a fish yesterday, and I can't remember the whole conversation, but I think when I mentioned that I was calling him Braveheart, she was like, "What??" and asked me why I was naming a fish I was going to eat. I think she thought that I had gone mad for sure at that point, because I kept using the word we to refer to myself and the fish, so I told her about my trip to the pet store. She got it then. I also told her about the little boys who were laughing at the mice, two of which were holding on for dear life to the wheel while one ran. You can imagine what that scene was like. Although, I will admit that I laughed too.

Mandatory Reporting, My Ass

So, here's the deal: after listening to an attorney who works for the DA (called a Deputy District Attorney, or DDA) talk for an hour about mandatory reporting, I was basically shamed into reporting on my father. I didn't tell them it was my father; I asked what you should do if there was a conflict of interest, like if you were dating someone who was abusive to their children. I called Washington's DHS, and found out that what my father has been doing all along is not abuse. Let me take you back 7 years for a moment

I'm in a car, and my father is threatening to whip me with a belt. "I'll report you to CPS for child abuse if you do!" He said, "It isn't abuse if I don't leave bruises."

Okay, back to the present. I was discussing this with my mom last night, and we both have the idea that he probably looked it up to see how far he could go before he got in trouble, thereby enforcing his status as an abuser. I learned yesterday in training that they did a study on the heart rate, perspiration rate, and breathing rate of abusers. The researchers sent the victims in with their abusers to provoke them, and just before the abuse happened, they stopped the experiment. What they found was that the abuser's heart rate, breathing rate, and perspiration rate all went down. The abuse cycle had a calming effect on the abuser. He plans it every time!

Also, I got fingerprinted for the first time. There was more that I was going to tell you, but I can't remember at the moment. Will post again soon.

Mandatory Reporting

Okay, for those of you who read and don't know, I am applying for an internship at the DA's office. I'm not totally clear on the boundaries here, but either now, or if I get it, I will be a mandatory reporter for cases of known child abuse and neglect. This means that if I don't report something, I could get in serious trouble. As in, be held in contempt and receive jail time. Fun, huh? So here is my problem. My father is emotionally abusive to his family, but mostly to his wife. He has never hit her, myself, or my step-sister, even though he has threatened to several times. He displays many characteristics of an abuser (because he is one) but doesn't batter. As far as I know, there are no laws against this in Eastern State. However, he has spanked his children when they don't do what he wants. He has spanked them with a spoon. A wooden spoon, from the kitchen.

Now, when he threatened to beat me with his belt when I was in the 8^th grade, he told me that I couldn't report it to CPS because it wasn't abuse if he didn't leave bruises. This is where I'm torn: I know that his logic is false, but I don't know how far it has to go before it is considered abuse. Does spanking a child with a spoon constitute as discipline, or as abuse? And if I did report it, who would I report to? Telling the DA of my office wouldn't do much because they have no jurisdiction over the county that my father lives in. If I reported it to CPS in Eastern State, what would they do? Would they tell him that I reported him? Do I get in trouble if I don't report my own family?

Old Woman

Sometimes, living with MS is like living with a child. I was thinking this the other day when I was helping her with the bath. I hate doing this. She gets the bathroom extremely hot, she splashes everywhere, she wears wax earplugs so she doesn't get an ear infection, and she has me wash her back and her hair. I was literally thinking while this was happening, Dear Lord, I am NEVER having children.

Sometimes living with MS is like watching grass grow. We sit down to eat dinner together every night, and I have grown up with my mother, who eats so fast, it's like she's taking a vacuum to her plate. Therefore, I have inherited her ability to snarf down a whole meal in about 15 minutes. This also comes from practice during my shifts at Big Retail Store when I go home for breaks. Oftentimes, I only have 15 minutes to eat, and therefore need to eat faster. So you must understand the agony that I go through, being on the verge of ADHD, unable to sit still while I watch an 80-odd-year-old woman take five minutes to chew each of the 15 quarters of ¼ inch sliced cucumber that pepper her salad. You can understand why I can't sit still for that long.

Sometimes living with MS is like living with a TV that stays on all the time, whether you're in the room with it or not, constantly spewing useless information that you can't really change whether you want to or not, and no matter what channel you turn it to, you rarely find anything interesting. MS reads the paper. She watches political TV. And therefore, she always has the most useless information, or information about stuff that I already know about. And when she is energetic, she will call me every five minutes to spout this useless information.

Sometimes living with MS is like living with a pet you don't really like. For instance, you bought this little football dog that you thought would make a nice, small, less-mess pet, but all it does is bark all the time, ask to be let outside, and whine to be fed. While MS doesn't ask to be let outside, she'll call me ten minutes before she's actually ready for bed to do things that I cannot do until she is ready for bed, and in bed. Like a dog, she doesn't understand that when she stands in your way, you can't do what it wants you to. She'll call me down so I can watch her sit on the toilet for ten minutes while she changes her clothes, and I am taskless. And then, like the dog that stands in your way, she won't get all the way into bed, so I can't take her fucking socks off.

Sometimes, living with MS is like living with an old woman. Oh, wait. That isn't a simile.

Absinthe Eyes

There I sat on the corner of 14^th and Center

After the long walk from the shelter

In my shabby coat, and my tattered, unbrushed hair.

Cars passed.

People spat at my sign from their windows.

They don't get that I can't get a job

That I don't have an address

That I don't have a place to take a shower.

On top of all that, I don't have a speck of green.

What a cruel day to be homeless.

 

Then she walked up.

 

With her blonde pixie cut,

Her green shirt and brooch.

Definitely the type of punk that laughs

With her absinthe-colored eyes.

Her piercings reminded me

Of the rainbows that leprechauns frequent

She got close enough to pinch me,

The tradition of the day.

She leaned down

And pinned a bill on my shirt.

Twenty dollars.

 

"There's your green for today," she said.

 

She disappeared around the corner,

And I had a hot meal for the first time in a week.

List Three?: Top Ten Bands I Would Love to See in Concert

1. John Mayer
   
2. Nickelback (bought tickets to see them in May, my uncle and I are going for my birthday!)
   
3. Keith Urban
   
4. Brad Paisley
   
5. Relient K (I saw them with Switchfoot a little over a year ago. Hearing the opening chords of "Meant to Live" was epic!)
   
6. Jason Mraz
   
7. Dierks Bentley
   
8. Daughtry
   
9. Dave Matthews Band
   
10. Big and Rich (their cds are pretty awesome, and I think they would be funny, as well as their factor of badass musicosity)

Saint Patrick, Among Others

I would have to argue that St. Patrick's Day is probably the dumbest celebrated holiday ever. Saint Patrick was supposedly the patron saint of Ireland, but did you know he was actually British? He was taken from Britain as a slave by Irish raiders when he was 16. Apparently while he was there, he had an epiphany that he should be a monk, and he was able to go back to Britain to train. Finally he ended up in Ireland again, this time by choice. Was he crazy? If I was captured when I was 16, and I managed to escape, the last thing I would want to do is go back! So now that we have established the fact that he was a monk, let's just reiterate that he was British before telling everyone that Ireland made him their patron saint. So now, when we celebrate SPD, we're actually celebrating Ireland. Regardless, it's supposed to be a day that honors a saint, right? Well, I hardly think that a monk would approve of people in another country partaking in food-colored beer in his name. I don't think Ireland even makes green beer. And on top of all this, where the hell did the leprechauns come in? And what about holidays for every other saint in the canon? Why don't they get their own celebratory days? And the pinching for lack of green clothing? WTF? Actually, I think that last one comes from one too many mean-hearted children who are beaten at home and need to take it out on the less-liked kid who always forgets to wear green. Guess I was that kid.

Despite the rant about SPD, I do have a poem that I am currently composing about it that isn't a rant in the slightest. So just hold out with me until I get it done and I'll publish it for you.

The people on sustainability council at my school were serving "sustainable" SPD cake today. It was chocolate with green frosting and green sprinkles. But it wasn't the cake that I am so concerned about, it was what was under it. These people, representatives of the sustainability council were serving their cake on paper plates. You read that right. Paper plates with plastic forks. I could understand the paper plates if we had a compost bin at my school. But we don't. And the plastic forks? Straight into the landfill. Way to go, sustainability council. Way. To. Go. Also, if the idea of sustainability is to limit the cutting down of trees, then why take their sticks off, just to annoy the ducks at the stream? Sticking 760 twigs in the ground all around on the bank of the stream isn't making a good point if you defeat the purpose by being contradicting in making your point.

Finally, I saw MZ with some guy today. I felt this uncontrollable urge to warn him that she's a douchemonger pig-bitch that will treat you nice until you think you're her best friend, and then turn around with her real, asshole best friend and stab you in the back. Whenever I see her with a new friend, I get this desire. I also get the desire to publish it on the internet, but I refrain from… oh, wait… no, I guess I actually do that. But not so that anyone knows who she is, or who I am (well, besides those of you who actually do know me personally). Anyway, while fighting this urge, and also the urge to untie her sling (she did something to her arm recently; I kind of want to hit it and see how loud she screams. Wow… no wonder they didn't want to live with me. I'm mean), I started thinking. If she and AK are the outward assholes (meaning, I may be an asshole too, but at least I'm good at hiding it until I'm anonymous), and they are the ones who did the wronging, why am I the lonely one? Why am I the one with no friends, when they have all sorts of new friends?

 

Anyway, wait for the poetry. It will be coming soon.

Creative Writing Exercise, Inspired by Carrie at Carrotspeak

What it comes down to is that Carrie at Carrotspeak is taking this creative writing course, where the exercise was to make a list of facts about yourself, someone else, the world, little known facts, ect. and then write an essay around one of them. So, here is mine:

See this? Here, on my skin. See it? That little tan spot? That one is from the horrible sunburn I got at Blue Lake when I went camping with my family. It was the first and only time I ever owned a bikini, because my boobs were too big for anything but a bandeau, and after that summer, I started middle school, where self-esteem was an issue for all girls, and the one thing that I happened to be self-conscious was the slight belly that stuck over the edge of my bottoms. I could barely sleep that night because it hurt so bad.

These two on my face, right next to each other, are from that time on the playground during the summer that I worked for Best SELF, the time that I was asking Luis, a twelve-year-old trouble maker about the meaning of a certain Spanish word that came up in my reading for AP English, which wasn't really age appropriate, if you know what I mean. This is a child who I sent out to run (as punishment) for swearing. So when I asked him this, you can imagine that I was slightly surprised when he wouldn't tell me what it meant, seeing as he swore all the time anyway.

And this one? On my arm? This one is from tramping around the fields chasing cattle with CMA on her parents' dairy farm when we were ten. I spent the night at her house that night, and we pulled mattresses out into the yard to sleep under the stars. We nearly got mauled by Bob, the Saint Bernard that they kept as a dog, for some reason. The thing really belonged in a horse pen, if you ask me. I guess the reason we were so freaked out by him because not only was he so big, but he slobbered a lot, and we fed off of each others' energy.

I got its twin the next day, when we went swimming in that pond her dad dug that summer. I remember he rented a tractor to dig it out, and the first few years, it was so deep, but as it settled, the dirt filled it back in again. My dad and her dad strung a rope from a tree that we could swing on as high as possible, which wasn't as high as the boys could swing, because they were bigger than we were. Some parts still stayed deep, and as the summers past, we swam in the parts that stayed deep. We would also use inner tubes to float down the stream it created.

This one, on my cheek, right next to my nose, I got from the Life Teen campout at the lake, when CMA's sister, BA, had to share a bed with me, and asked if I wanted to feel her hairy legs. She proceeded to rub them against my bare skin. I always thought she was a weirdo, but hey, I guess she fits in with the rest of the family.

Oh! Look at this one. This is the one I remember the best. Here, on my shoulder. I got this the last time I saw CMA. I had just stormed out of my house after a sunny day spent mostly outside, but then having to cook for my father. He said something to me that night that really upset and hurt me. So, I left. CMA and I were planning on going out to the movies that night anyway, but we changed our plans without telling our parents and ended up in serious trouble. I got mad at her, because she never told me about the curfew that she was supposed to abide by.

She didn't make it to day I got the next freckle. She died one January. Thank God I don't have a freckle to remember that by, I can remember it clearly enough already.

 

Anyway, tell me what you think!

When pet peeves get you down, what do you do? That's right, you blog about them. This post is dedicated to pet peeves, and even though other people expressing pet peeves might be a pet peeve in and of itself, but I promise that you will commiserate, as well as add your own. On top of all that, I will make a post of things that I love some other time.

1. People who have opinions so strong, that they don't let others with a separate opinion get a word in edgewise.
   
2. Pointy faces that resemble rats. These people tend to be really snotty.
   
3. Overarched, overshaped, overwaxed eyebrows.
   
4. Bigots.
   
5. People who are lazy with their spelling. (I'm talking about stuff like "i 8 diner alredy. r u going too the movies tonite?" Seriously, would it kill you to go back to elementary school and do the dumb spelling assignments where you had to write each word three times, only this time do it right and make it stick.)
   
6. Grad school choices.
   
7. Uggs. (The name says it all: "ugg")
   
8. Pants tucked into boots. (Especially when paired with number 7. This fad is just dumb)
   
9. Wearing nothing but tights or leggings as pants to class.
   
10. Overly lazy people who want to get paid, or do get paid for doing nothing.
    
11. People who text in class.
    
12. Being put on the spot/having to give a public speech or presentation. (I failed the spelling bee. Twice. On the first word. All because I was nervous. Not because I was a number 5.)
    
13. Having to put your finger in an empty lotion bottle to get the remains.
    
14. Passive aggressive people who pose their requests as if they were your idea. "If you would like, you can make a pot of tea for me."
    
15. Any tapping or repetitive motion, either regular or irregular.
    
16. People who think they're right all the time. (These people are usually number 1's too)
    
17. Wet shoes and socks that keep your feet cold.
    

Lately I've been making a lot of lists. I don't know what's going on, maybe I'm just compartmentalizing a lot of stuff. But I also have a list about badass movies that I want to add to my overly girlie collection, I have a list of top ten bands I want to see in concert, I have an ongoing list of things that I absolutely lovelovelove. All of these will be coming in due time. Yay!

So, I'm taking this class called women in the arts, and we're examining closely the lives of women who didn't get enough credit for their artwork when they were working. I've found that so far, most of the articles that we have read in this class have seemed fairly accurate in their portrayal of the female artists, that is until we started studying Fanny Mendelssohn/Hensel. She had a brother, Felix, who was also a composer and was said to be the most influential person in Fanny's life, and judging by her letters to him, I would argue that this also is fairly accurate. However, in every article that I have read about the siblings (save for one), the author (who is often a feminist) will paint the portrait of Felix as the villain, the person who discourages Fanny not to publish her compositions. However, in an article that I read for today's class by someone of the name of Kimber, she presents a completely different take on things, with supporting evidence, unlike many of the other articles that I've read. Most of the other articles construct their arguments by speculation and speculation alone, and pick and choose the letters that support their theories from the letters between the Mendelssohn siblings, and completely disregard all other evidence that provides counters to their arguments.

Now, the people in my class read the ones without evidence, or with very little evidence, and automatically assume that this is the true story of Fanny, that her brother held her back from publishing, and completely criticize the article that actually provides evidence. I hate these people. This is the problem with taking feminist classes.

Swirling Stuff Mixed With A Weird Mood

Well, I've certainly had a lot to think about for the past few days. Like I described to AAS the other day, it's like there is a hurricane in my brain, and the clouds are everything I'm thinking about with the epicenter being me and who I am as a person. I guess I'm kind of going through existentialism. What does it all mean?

But anyway, on to the swirling clouds: AAS thinks I should start considering myself as a bisexual, because he thinks I am a little. I don't know though. There are things that point to the possibility that I might be (like, I think its weird watching guys masturbate) but on the other hand, I couldn't see myself doing anything with a girl besides kissing, experimentally. AAS says that my tendency to tell my female friends that they look hot in some outfit supports the idea that I am or might be, but I argue that it's simply platonic, like a compliment.

Another thing: I had an epiphany when I saw MZ with her dad the other day: She was only friends with me because she liked the parties I want to. Seriously, the only reason she was sad that PV and I broke up is because she would miss out on the parties that he threw, and she got angry when I wouldn't take her to a theatre party because she would have to take her brothers. Her younger brothers. Her brothers that are in middle and high school. She told her mom about that, and her mom was pissed at me. Wtf? Underage kids (more underage than MZ and I) at a drunken theatre party? What if the police came? The people hosting the party would be in bigger trouble than I would and would hate me forever for bringing people who don't even go to our school to their party. I was not okay with this, but apparently MZ's mom was. Some mother. I wonder if MZ told her mom about what she said about me with AK and the others. Maybe then her mom would think she was the bad kid, and not me. Ha. I wish. Like my mom told me I was the bad one when I found out from my roommate (how I found out is relevant but unmentionable. Just know that it was bad, and I was bad for doing it). Oh wait. She did tell me I was the bad one. I guess that does make MZ's mother a shitty one.

I think it's just something with me and mother's other than my own. I guess I don't think that there are any other mothers better than my mom was to me, (including me, sometime in the future).

Finally AAS and I are fighting right now.

 

Guess that's it. Just stuff. Swirling stuff mixed with a weird mood.

Hey Everybody, It’s Bad Joke Friday!

And the bad joke of the day is as follows:

A man was waiting for his wife to give birth. The doctor came and informed the dad that his son was born without a torso, arms, or legs. The son was just a head!

But the dad loved his son and raised him as well as he could. Eighteen years later, the son was old enough for his first drink. The dad took him to a bar, tearfully told him he was proud of him, and ordered the biggest, strongest drink for his boy. With all the bar patrons looking on curiously, the boy took his first sip of alcohol.

Swoooop! A torso popped out!

The bar was dead silent, then burst into a whoop of joy. The father, shocked, begged his son to drink again. The patrons chanted, "Take another drink! Take another drink!" The bartender shook his head in dismay.

Swoooop! Two arms popped out!

The bar went wild. The father, crying and wailing, begged his son to drink again. The patrons chanted, "Take another drink! Take another drink!" But the bartender ignored the whole affair.

By this time, the boy was getting tipsy. With his new hands, he reached down, grabbed the drink, and guzzled the last of it.

Swoooop! Two legs popped out.

The bar was in chaos. The father wept with joy. The boy stood up on his new legs. He stumbled to the left. He stumbled to the right. Then he stumbled through the front door and into the street, where a truck ran him over.

The bar fell silent. The father moaned with grief. The bartender merely sighed and said, "He should have quit while he was a head."

 

Haha! This one, while morbid, makes me giggle a little. Feel free to comment with your own bad jokes!

Also, I'm stuck at home with MS all weekend, so don't be surprised if there are a few venting posts here by Monday.

A Letter to a Bitch.

MS, Darling.

I hate you. I hate when you correct my grammar, and interrupt me when I'm saying something to do it, even though you say I'm rude for "playing with my toes at the table," even though I'm scratching them because they itch. I hate when you guilt trip me for having a day off when Kathryn comes down, because I have a RIGHT to a day off. In fact, by state law, I have a right to an hour lunch and two ten minute breaks because of the length of the shift that I'm working. However, I have to be in the house with you at all times, or at least close enough to come running when you press the call button. I hate it when you change the rules on me and say that something is my responsibility when it wasn't made explicit that it was my responsibility. I hate it when you call me every five minutes when you know that I have homework to do, just to tell me about something in the paper that you find interesting and that you want me to read, even though you know I don't have the time, because of my homework load. I hate when I heat your dinner to boiling hot, and then you tell me it's cold, 15 minutes after I have given it to you, without even taking a bite. I hate when you think that everything can be done on your schedule, even though my sleep cycle starts before you're ready to go to bed. I hate it when you get mad at me for being impatient when it is 9:30 at night, and you haven't finished your dinner. I hate it when you treat me like I'm stupid, a recurring event, I might add, like I don't know what grapes look like in the fridge, or that I didn't check all the drawers and shelves for a specific cracker. I hate it when you pry in my life, when I'm already so pissed at you that I don't want to talk to you. I hate it that I can drink two glasses of wine and STILL be stressed out by you. I hate that you ask to do something that you could do after you are ready for bed before you let me get you ready for bed, just to make me wait. I hate that you are dead set on making me do something that I hate doing, just because you know I hate doing it. Make T. do it; all she does all day is sit on her ass anyway. I am here for one reason and one reason only: because my friends that I was supposed to live with deserted me, and started talking shit about me behind my back. Not because I like you (who the fuck does???), not because you need me. Because I can't afford to live on my own. Because my ex-friends are assholes, and didn't have the guts to show me they were to my face. I would rather be homeless than live here. I would rather starve than live here. I would rather live with five assholes who hate me and don't depend on me, than one asshole who does, and won't leave me alone for five seconds, and then says she does so much for me, when you're really just a bitch. That is all.

Fuck you.

JMA

P.S. Calling AAS fat makes him want to beat you to death with a pineapple. Also, he thinks that every day I don't murder you is a miracle.