Danny,
I never really understood why I wanted to be a writer. I mean, who would really read anything I wrote down? No one listens when I speak, why they would care about what I put on paper, I couldn't answer you. But, when I started this pen pal ship with you, I couldn't stop writing, and re-writing, and re-writing again. I got addicted to the fact that someone was actually interested in what I had to say. So, I wanted to get better at it. I wanted to be able to sound the way I felt on paper. Old and deep and in thought. This is about the twelfth letter I've ever written you, hurray. But tonight, I'm frustrated. My parents keep yelling at each other, and I'm so focused on tuning them out, it's giving me a headache. Mom keeps saying something about a woman, and Daddy won't shut up about shutting up. I can hear Mom sobbing, and Daddy gets quiet, his feet shuffling to her. But she screams at him to get away from him. Then it starts all over again. I never really know what they fight about. Before, it used to be about money. Then, it bounced to Daddy cheating on Mom. Then Mom cheating on Daddy, then bills, then the car, then the house, then me. They fought about me a lot. About how I don't have a lot of friends, about how I'm not pretty or about how I'm too pretty. About my grades, and my posture and my music and personality and style. Mom's upset that I only wear black, and listen to The Doors, The Cure and Etta James. Daddy has no problem in it, as long as I'm not getting arrested or doing drugs. Moms sure I'm pregnant while Daddy's sure that I'm smoking weed. I never can be in the same room as them without them picking at me and poking me and probing me with stares and accusations and cheap blows and tricks. Sometimes, I'll just lock myself up in my room for days and write, calling the school pretending to be my mom and call in sick for me, faking ammonia or the flu, or the cold. I get my work done, and am passing all my classes. I just take a good few days and get all my feelings out on paper. And a lot of my frustration and anger, I write to you. I just don't send them. I just wish sometimes my parents would realize that I would like to be their daughter, but I'm trying too hard to remain myself. I guess that being me disappoints them, because they would rather me be Emily Rae Jameson. Their blonde haired blue eyed daughter. Their happy daughter. But I'm not happy, and it's because I have to be their daughter.
Love,
Emily