Fuck You, This is a Rant

This is a rant.
Don't read it.

You make me cry more than anyone else in the world. After every speech you give me, I hate myself because you tell me I'm a failure, and I fail at life, and that I'm going to fail at life. I hate myself because you don't believe in me. I hate myself because you won't believe in me, and I think of everything I could do to make you believe in me. I hate myself because you hate me. I hate myself because you don't believe anything that comes out of my mouth. You don't believe my actions, you don't believe my words. You don't even believe I'm a Christian. You're truly a Christian, aren't you?

I can't be perfect, okay? You tell me to stop being one of those "teenagers" who hang out and watch movies and hang out and make memories. Apparently, being social is a bad thing for you. Then I wonder why you spent the whole day yesterday with your friends, in New Jersey, eating and fishing and praying like idiots together. You tell me I'm going to hate you when I grow up because you let me be too free, but you're wrong. I'm going to hate you for putting me in a cage and expecting me to be perfect in every way.

Just because I'm on my laptop does not mean I'm chatting away with Warren or playing games or doing whatever the fuck else I would be doing. I'm checking my emails, I'm checking scholarships, I'm reading articles, I'm catching up on my college news, I'm asking questions, I'm reading books, I'm reading a fucking textbook. I'm writing, I'm writing an essay. I'm writing my feelings out, I'm getting in touch with old friends. Yes mom, I'm always gaming, 24/7. Because apparently that's what you think of me. A failure and a retarded child, who doesn't care about anything else in the world besides rising up to the top.

And when you say I don't try, how the fuck would you know? Did you go inside my brain and poke it and ask it away? No you didn't. You didn't ask me, you don't know me. You say I don't talk to you about myself, you say you don't know me. Well of course you don't know me. I'm tired of trying to talk to you. I'm tired of trying to be friendly. I'm tired of trying to be the perfect daughter, perfect sister. Whenever I open my mouth you fucking judge me and tell me what I should do. You don't listen. You're not a listener. You're a talker, and you're a bad one at that. Stop talking, shut your lips. I don't want your stupid opinions. I don't want your stupid pity talk. I don't want you to tell me what to do. I don't care. I just don't fucking care. Shut up and listen. Don't interrupt when I talk. Stop trying to be sympathetic, I don't need your stupid pity. Stop telling me to be perfect. Stop telling me to be perfect.

And you tell me to stop caring about my looks. Then why do you go get haircuts, dye your hair, perm your hair? Why do you put on make up? Why did you get your eyebrows filled in with tattoos? Why do you care, when you tell me not to care? You tell me, college is for studying. You should not care about looks and all that. Are you fucking stupid? There's a thing called impressions, and you have to make good ones. You must be jealous of my youthfulness. I'm so sorry you could not live like this, but just because I have more opportunity to be more fashionable and beautiful than you, does not mean you get to prevent me from doing all that. You are a selfish bitch, and I hate you.

When I say "I need shoes," it means, I really need shoes. I have a pair of sneakers and a pair of sandals. I do need shoes. On the other hand, you have so many different pairs, high heels, low heels, sandals, sandals, sneakers, and another pair of stupid looking church shoes. You tell me I have too much and that I'm spoiled, but look at you? What the fuck are you then? You're telling me I have too many shoes? Why are you even talking about shoes? Can't I develop my own image? I want to develop my own image. I don't want to look like the hobo you were when you were 19. I know you're jealous, okay? I just don't want to live the life you lived. You told me, when you were young, you did not have this much freedom. You did not have this much money. So what? So fucking what? What does that have anything to do with me? I do have this much freedom. I do have more money than you. And you know what? I'm going to use it, because I have it. I'm not going to save it for when I'm 60 years old, like you. I'm not going to save it all for my future children. I'm not you. I'm going to use it on myself.

Listen.
I'm not going to be perfect. Ever.
I want to be different than you. I don't want to live like you did. I don't want to spend like you did. I don't want to buy like you did.
I have a different sense of fashion than you. I'm going to buy what I think looks best on me. I'm going to buy it whether you like it or not, because I don't care what you think.
Oh, and you tell me, I should stop caring about what others think and think about what I truly want. From the inside. Like an angel. Or so you say, which doesn't even make sense.

I am thinking about what I want. And I'm thinking, a leather jacket would be nice. High heels would be nice. A new nice haircut would be nice. A tank top would be nice. A see through white shirt would be nice. A lacey bra would be nice. New pair of eyes would be nice. And you know what, I don't care what others think about those things. It's what I truly want, from the inside. I don't care if I look trashy, I look slutty, I look like a prostitute, I look like a sad, emo kid, I look like an A&F bitch. I don't care, because you told me not to think about what others think. So if I want to look like a prostitute, I will mom. And I don't fucking care about what others think of that. There you go. Are you happy now?

Too bad I can't say it to you. You won't be able to understand this young mind of mine.

So continue listening. Don't interrupt me when I talk. I know you're rude and you interrupt all the time, but practice what you preach and listen to me.

I'm not going to be a failure at life. You tell me I'm a failure. You tell me I'm going to fail out of college. You tell me I'm going to live on the streets, begging for money. You tell me I'll probably work at McDonald's and earn the minimum wage. Thanks mom, it's really encouraging. But I don't really want to live like that. I know you really expected me to, because I'm a failure. But I'm going to go against your predictions and succeed and life.
And I'm not going to share any of my success with you.
I'm going to be a beautiful girl you never gave birth to. You won't recognize me when I return home. I won't be your daughter. I'll be someone even better than your daughter, because your daughter is a failure at life, right?
I'm going to be so rich, that you won't recognize me. You tell me I'm going to live on the streets mom, but I won't. That's why you won't recognize me, because I'm going to live on a mansion you've never dreamed of. And you won't get to see it, because you're not worthy enough.
I'm going to share the love you never shared with me.
I'm going to share the freedom you never let me have.
I'm not going to trap my kids in a doorless cage, like you have. Believe it or not, I hate it. It doesn't protect me, it doesn't help me become more independent.

Fuck you.
I hate you.
When I get out of this cage, I'm not coming back.