I’ve been sent out of my morning biology lesson, not because I did anything interesting or rebellious to annoy the teacher, but because I pulled a sicky on Monday and missed the test. I don’t have time to do it now because I have to have a needle jabbed in my arm in twenty minutes, and clearly sticking around in the lesson when everyone is going over the test answers would give me somewhat of an advantage. The arrangement was working pretty well for me until I realised no one else had a free this period and now I’m sitting quite alone in the kitchen.
Fortunately, some genius has found a way to bypass the school safety nets, so I can actually get on blogspot and make some, albeit rather frivolous, use of my time.
Susie is moving on to something almost serious for once.
I’ve been thinking recently about families, about how people get along with their families, love them, appreciate them, all that jazz. And I wonder if I do, or ever will feel the same about my family. Granted, there is nothing wrong with my family; they’re good people and my life at home is probably above average. And I love them in that family way that no one can ever really get rid of, even if they want to. But whether I like them or not is a different matter. It sounds pathetic and teenager-y to say that we bicker all the time and it annoys me, but it’s true. Somehow I can’t seem to say a single thing without my dad arguing with it, or my brother butting in with some mocking comment because he thinks he knows me better than I do, or my mum laughing at me and telling me about how much harder her life is.
It’s mundane and stereotypical to argue with your family, and I imagine that all I’m going to hear in response to this post is that I should be grateful for what I have and stop complaining because it’s normal and people go through much worse. But ultimately, I have a right to be unhappy with this. It makes me tense and stressed when I shouldn’t be and it makes me feel guilty every time someone shows that they like their family, because it just reminds me that I really don’t.
Susie is still stunned at her brother calling her a cunt this morning for turning his light on. Even she thought he had more class than that.
Fortunately, some genius has found a way to bypass the school safety nets, so I can actually get on blogspot and make some, albeit rather frivolous, use of my time.
Susie is moving on to something almost serious for once.
I’ve been thinking recently about families, about how people get along with their families, love them, appreciate them, all that jazz. And I wonder if I do, or ever will feel the same about my family. Granted, there is nothing wrong with my family; they’re good people and my life at home is probably above average. And I love them in that family way that no one can ever really get rid of, even if they want to. But whether I like them or not is a different matter. It sounds pathetic and teenager-y to say that we bicker all the time and it annoys me, but it’s true. Somehow I can’t seem to say a single thing without my dad arguing with it, or my brother butting in with some mocking comment because he thinks he knows me better than I do, or my mum laughing at me and telling me about how much harder her life is.
It’s mundane and stereotypical to argue with your family, and I imagine that all I’m going to hear in response to this post is that I should be grateful for what I have and stop complaining because it’s normal and people go through much worse. But ultimately, I have a right to be unhappy with this. It makes me tense and stressed when I shouldn’t be and it makes me feel guilty every time someone shows that they like their family, because it just reminds me that I really don’t.
Susie is still stunned at her brother calling her a cunt this morning for turning his light on. Even she thought he had more class than that.
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