"A woman with true wisdom fights the monster in her friends; and only if the monster makes the man."
What does one do when both ends of a failing arguement are also failing, precisely? Of course I can't talk to anyone about this--she didn't mention writing a blog no one's ever going to read now, did she? No. No she did not.
See, my sister is very fond of attention whoring. After all, isn't every person, even if they don't admit it? The shyest person in the world happens to want noticing, even if they're too afraid to tell you that's the case.
Taylor is not the shyest person.
Not even a little bit.
She's stupidly ready to die but when she gets there, she temporarily (yes, TEMPORARILY) realizes perhaps this is not the most prudent option and fights like all hell for life.
Meanwhile, my mother is kicking herself every day for the half million things she's taken on. And when a full moon meets the sliver, there's dark. And when there's dark--there is... hostility. Horrible hostility.
'Hostility' is really a word for 'they fight, because they're too proud and both is wrong in some way.' I'm late for school every day because one of them is slow, if it's not me (I'd like to think it's me less often, I've been getting up at five since September, but I've overslept a couple of times) and I was late again today. Mr. Mahoney, who I personally think does actually like me a little, only noticed that the fashionable girl was late for the first day of swimming--well, you can guess what his assumption was. It took all my personal charm to convince him I did want to swim (which I did, I'm a water faery for all these intents), so I'm making it up ninth hour. A minor detail, really.
What can I do about this? Really nothing. I'm forbidden from mentioning it, if I understand correctly. Like I can't mention mom's freaking out about money. Like I can't mention Taylor tells all her little minions, the freaky unintelligent minions, what a horrible nasty monster I am, how I've surpassed her in every way.
Whatever.
She's adding yet another worry to a list of my shit, and I don't need this from her. She doesn't have the will to live, and mom's pushing her into living. There's nothing we can do, which annoys me, but not as much as the fact that we need to keep hitting her, so to speak, back into life. That should not be anyone's responsibility but hers. It should be easy as breathing.
Ugh. Ugh ugh ugh.
First government meeting tonight. I'm going with Sam Snodie, we're leaving at six fourty-five. Hopefully mom'll be okay with that, I know that scholarship shit is tonight... it won't last *that* long, will it? Well, she'll have to deal with it. I need this meeting and one other one to graduate, so deal.
Graduate... yeah, soooo excited about that.... /Sarcasm fairy
Mom also mentioned I need a job if I want to do anything fun, ever, after reminding me what a failure I am at all life, after looking at me midway through the fight she and Taylor had last night when I was trying to do my stupid Algebra, as if to say, 'help me, damnit!'
Well, that's the way to motivate your children, isn't it, if you're busy.
Whatever.
So much to do. So much shit. I feel like I'm drowning with a weight tied to me, but I'm not dying yet. Still holding my breath...
What happens when I r un out of air?
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