My mother doesn't know that, one, I'm dating Griffin Hastings, the wearer of Hot Topic and PacSun; two, I secretly smoke, but only cigarettes, no weed or anything like that; third, there's a possibility I could be pregnant; fourth, Alicia Rivera, will neverbe my friend; fifth, I'm the reason Claire and her family moved back to Orland-ew; sixth, I've cut myself before; and seventh, I started the teensy, weensy, fire at the annual Block Debutante Ball.

My mother, Kendra, is quite oblivious to the absolute obvious. I've come home with bandages around head and bruises on my cheeks but she never seems to notice. I've even come home with different clothes than those I left my house with and she didn't even remark about the difference. I swear.

Sometimes it's great that my mother is a little less than attentive. I can usually smuggle a few girlfriends in on a Friday night or steal some vodka from the alcohol cabinet when I'm feeling lousy. It's almost like having no guardian whatsoever.

Possibly, she's just too caught up in her own little world, which I believe is only part of the problem. I've cooked my meals since I was seven, which included lasagna, grilled cheese and--unbelievavbly-- filet mignon. I do all the grocery shopping, pay the bills, and do the laundry. I guess I've learned to look out for myself and be intensely independent. Maybe too independent.

For sure, and I'm absolutely positive, my mother could care less about me. She can pretend as much as she wants but I know she'll never love me as a daughter. Yeah, she says she loves me, but she puts no feeling or compassion into it. I can see it in her eyes.

But there's one thing I can't stand. She thinks I'm some pretty, stuck-up, self-centered, nasty, bitch who's dating the preppy, rich, and I admit it, adorable, Derrick Harrington, and I'm tired of pretending. So, I've made a decision to, over the course of seven days, a week, tell my mother who, or what, I really am.