Saturday, April 17, 2010
I must have a serious mental disease. I can't even seem to carry on a conversation with Sam anymore, every time she tries to talk to me I come up with some lame excuse about why I have to go, but half the time they don't even make sense. Their just things like "I'm taking my mom to birthing class," or "My sausage gave me a paper cut, I better go get it looked at." What's wrong with me? The girl of my dreams likes me and all I can so is talk about sausage? Plus every time I go to talk to her she's either on her way to go, eating, or asleep.
But a loss of words isn't my only problem. Since my mom is insisting that she knows absolutely every aspect of my life she decided that if I'm even a second late home from school, she's going to call the cops and report a run away baby girl. There are three things wrong with that sentence…
1. I'm not a baby.
2. I'm not a girl.
3. She doesn't give me enough allowance to run away, and she knows it.
She also decided that she it was of dire importance that she reads my diary… I mean journal, because in her words "She needs to make sure that I'm thinking healthy and clean thoughts." How retarded is that? I was like "Isn't the whole point of a journal to write down your thoughts and feelings freely, and for them not to be read by others?" But all she did was steal my journal and contemplate whether or not every little line and dot was "healthy."
That's not even the worst part, she read the parts about Sam and decided it was time for "the talk." But her version of the talk isn't like normal peoples, oh no, not even close.
He version included Barbie, Ken, and a little tiny razor. She didn't even tell the truth in it. She said that if you have sex your "privet parts" will shrivel up and fall off, and all of your hair will fall out. I was like "Oh really? If that's true then why do you have hair?" Her response was a lie OF COURSE. "I've never had sex of course," she said as she got up to make a nicely grotesque fat free, low cal., fat free, high fiber, and so on, dinner.
But all that is nothing compared to my worries about what I'm going to do about Sam. I need to talk to her I know, but how? When? I need help, maybe I'll talk to Carly about it first, and she's pretty good at this sort of thing.
My mother's trying to ruin my life… Freddie