A/N: Hello, wonderful readers! This is a brand new story in which Nat is seeking help from his dead mother through letters. I must warn you, there is foul language along with violence, drugs, and sex along the way! If you're not into that kind of thing, avert your eyes now! Enjoy!

Disclaimer: I do not own The Naked Brothers Band.

Dear Mom,

Before I begin, I want to make it clear to you that I am seventeen-years-old now, so you can no longer consider me a kid. I have seen and heard more things in my teenage years than you will find possible. Therefore, don't get mad when I start using words that you would usually gasp at. And the same thing goes for any sexual, violent, or just plain messed up thing I might talk about. Okay, now that that's taken care of, here we go.

I am mainly writing to you for the sake of my therapist. He says putting my thoughts down on paper might help me understand my problems better, and it even might help me cope with everything. I have mentioned to him a million times before that I am a songwriter; I already write my thoughts down. And every time I say this, I get the same answer. "That may be true, but this writing doesn't have to rhyme."

Stupid. That is the word I would use to describe my therapist. He apparently doesn't listen to much music or he would know that the majority of music doesn't rhyme. That's the problem with people, nowadays. You can't just go off on your own and be a free spirit. No, you have to wear what other people wear and say what other people say and go where other people go. For once in my life I'd like to put on a pair of shoes that are two completely different colors, a bright red pair of pants with yellow basketball shorts over them, a purple polo shirt, a leather jacket, and a hat two sizes too big for my head and yell, "This is me, dammit! Now shut the hell up!"

I think that is the type of thing Dad worries about. You know, me going crazy someday? I like to think he's just looking out for me, but c'mon. You and me both know Dad. Always for himself, never for anyone else. Me being in the paper for some idiotic act of crime wouldn't bother him. It would be the plain fact that the newspaper would write, "Nat Wolff, son of Sonny Wolff..." Now, don't get me wrong, Mom. I like Dad, I do. It's just that the more I grow up, the more distant I feel from him. It's like he's just waiting for Alex and I to grow up so he can finally be free of hassle.

Speaking of Alex, the little dude is fourteen now. Can you believe it? It feels like just yesterday he was addicted to lemon-lime soda. Oh, wait, that was yesterday. Yeah, he's back on it again. It's not as bad this time, though, so no need to worry. He drinks about one a day, but it is still enough to make him go mad. I told Dad that Alex should be the one in therapy. He rolled his eyes at me.

Did you ever have to go to therapy, Mom? It really sucks. Every session is the same. "What's new, Nat? Are you doing okay, Nat? And how does that make you feel, Nat?" If I had a fucking problem explaining how I feel then I wouldn't need therapy. That's what friends are for, right?

Wrong. Friends suck...literally. Rosalina is a whore now, but I think we all saw that one coming after the whole thing with the French dude. Let's see, David is a pot head. Just last week he spent all of the Christmas money he received on weed. Thomas joins him sometimes, but he's more into the alcohol. Even after being poisoned by it two times he hasn't quit. Qaasim is practically in a gang. He never really seemed to grow out of the "sagging pants" phase. Cooper graduated from high school a year early, so he is at some ivy league school in California. He stopped calling after about two weeks. And you're probably wondering about that bitch, Kristina. She went back to the Bronx about a month after joining the band. Everyone was kinda upset, but I saw it as a blessing. The girl wouldn't stop bringing those damn cookies to rehearsal!

Now that I've told everyone's life story besides mine, you're probably thinking about why I'm in therapy, aren't you? Well, you spend a whole month in your apartment and suddenly everyone thinks you're depressed. And maybe I am. I don't know. All I can say is I hate life. Period. Once the band broke up and the members started becoming people they weren't meant to be, I kind of lost it. I didn't do anything. I didn't go anywhere. Most days I wouldn't even brush my teeth. So here I am seeking guidance from a therapist who thinks every song rhymes. Whatever.

I promise you this, Mom. Tomorrow I'm going to become a new person, a whole new Nat. I don't know what I'll do. Maybe become religious or something, but I highly doubt that. Whatever I do, though, I swear it will change people's perspective on me completely. And then we'll see who's depressed.

Love,

Nat

A/N: Review please, and let me know if you like it! :D