A lot of kids would be glad to trade places with me, because I never have
to deal with my parents due to their extreme jobs. Mum and Dad take their
jobs very seriously, but I guess they need to.
Dad is a doctor in the ER, if he didn't take his job seriously, a lot of people would die.
Mom is a youth correction manager; in other words, her job is to straighten out So-Cal's troubled youth. If she didn't take her job seriously the world would be filled with raving lunatics.
You would think that life with parents who have such cool jobs would be great.
Hate to break it to you, but you'd be wrong.
Those who said it would be so boring you could break down and cry would be right. We've fallen into a rut, my parents and I, a set path, nothing new.
Sleep.
Work.
Home.
Food.
TV.
Bed.
Get up and do it all over again.
The only variety we have is whatever I happen to pop in the microwave for dinner- sometimes pizza, sometimes EZMac. Once, I even nuked one of those little breaded chicken breasts from the freezer, you know, the ones everybody has but no one ever eats? Yeah, those.
What's really annoying is the talk: We talk while we eat, like we just can't eat in peace-
(The following is an impression done with an over-done voice-pitch for mum and dad respectively)
"How was work, Sweetheart?" "Work was hell, Honey, there was a car accident, blood everywhere. How about your day, Sweet Honey Lover Cakes?" "Well, we have a new boy at the institute, rambunctious little youngster set a bum on fire." "Well, that's nice. How was your day, Willow? Write any new poetry?" "Yes, kind father of mine, I did, and my day was utterly fantastic. The sun was shining and the birds were singing, I had a smile on my face and a song in my heart!"
They're always so nice, to a point where you want to gag. I try to make my parents happy, so I put on an act. I pretend to be sweet like sugar, instead of the lime I am.
They act like they care about me, but they don't. Once, when my dad came home drunk after a party, he said I was an accident, that they didn't really want a kid. He said that the condom broke. I cried for hours.
That night was the first time I wrote a poem. It felt so right, I kept doing it, and by the end of the night I had twenty or more.
The next day at school my teacher found my book and read it, she pulled me aside after class and practically forced me to join her creative writing class.
A year and a half later, and I have quite the reputation. The local newspaper has done some articles, calling me the newest child prodigy. It's kind of annoying.
My parents are very supportive, to a point where you want to gag. What can I say? My life is a gag fest. They pay the entry fees to all the prestigious contests and enter my stuff without even asking. They force me into the talent show to read my poetry. Little do they know poetry is my way to vent, not my way to fame.
We talk about my poems a lot. Mostly during dinner, but tonight we didn't talk about me at all.
My dad was to busy explaining about a gunshot victim, apparently, part of a gang. The cops had stopped them on their way to a rumble, they started shooting when the kids pulled their guns. The girl was found with a two handguns and a switchblade, obviously ready to spill some blood.
Dad said the girl was incoherent, babbling about fog and mist, none of which made any sense. He said he thought she was mental, a head-case or something. He told Mum to watch out for her, because as soon as she was well enough, she was heading straight to Sunnydale's Juvenal Detention Center.
As he described her case, I felt more and more compelled to give this mystery girl a visit.
Dad is a doctor in the ER, if he didn't take his job seriously, a lot of people would die.
Mom is a youth correction manager; in other words, her job is to straighten out So-Cal's troubled youth. If she didn't take her job seriously the world would be filled with raving lunatics.
You would think that life with parents who have such cool jobs would be great.
Hate to break it to you, but you'd be wrong.
Those who said it would be so boring you could break down and cry would be right. We've fallen into a rut, my parents and I, a set path, nothing new.
Sleep.
Work.
Home.
Food.
TV.
Bed.
Get up and do it all over again.
The only variety we have is whatever I happen to pop in the microwave for dinner- sometimes pizza, sometimes EZMac. Once, I even nuked one of those little breaded chicken breasts from the freezer, you know, the ones everybody has but no one ever eats? Yeah, those.
What's really annoying is the talk: We talk while we eat, like we just can't eat in peace-
(The following is an impression done with an over-done voice-pitch for mum and dad respectively)
"How was work, Sweetheart?" "Work was hell, Honey, there was a car accident, blood everywhere. How about your day, Sweet Honey Lover Cakes?" "Well, we have a new boy at the institute, rambunctious little youngster set a bum on fire." "Well, that's nice. How was your day, Willow? Write any new poetry?" "Yes, kind father of mine, I did, and my day was utterly fantastic. The sun was shining and the birds were singing, I had a smile on my face and a song in my heart!"
They're always so nice, to a point where you want to gag. I try to make my parents happy, so I put on an act. I pretend to be sweet like sugar, instead of the lime I am.
They act like they care about me, but they don't. Once, when my dad came home drunk after a party, he said I was an accident, that they didn't really want a kid. He said that the condom broke. I cried for hours.
That night was the first time I wrote a poem. It felt so right, I kept doing it, and by the end of the night I had twenty or more.
The next day at school my teacher found my book and read it, she pulled me aside after class and practically forced me to join her creative writing class.
A year and a half later, and I have quite the reputation. The local newspaper has done some articles, calling me the newest child prodigy. It's kind of annoying.
My parents are very supportive, to a point where you want to gag. What can I say? My life is a gag fest. They pay the entry fees to all the prestigious contests and enter my stuff without even asking. They force me into the talent show to read my poetry. Little do they know poetry is my way to vent, not my way to fame.
We talk about my poems a lot. Mostly during dinner, but tonight we didn't talk about me at all.
My dad was to busy explaining about a gunshot victim, apparently, part of a gang. The cops had stopped them on their way to a rumble, they started shooting when the kids pulled their guns. The girl was found with a two handguns and a switchblade, obviously ready to spill some blood.
Dad said the girl was incoherent, babbling about fog and mist, none of which made any sense. He said he thought she was mental, a head-case or something. He told Mum to watch out for her, because as soon as she was well enough, she was heading straight to Sunnydale's Juvenal Detention Center.
As he described her case, I felt more and more compelled to give this mystery girl a visit.