Written Yesterday:
I'm back in Michigan, my friends.
I got home, had a call from McB saying "Call me when you get home." I was home, so, I called him. He's having a campfire in his backyard. We roasted marshmallows.
Mrs. McB asked me what I wanted to do when I grew up. "What do you REALLY like to do, what's better than anything, what's your main interest?"
"Movies." Said Ryan, "I can see Chris as a good movie director."
There's something I just loved hearing from McB. He's not said anything like that to me before.
His mom told me to get out there and do everything NOW. I don't know what that means yet, because I'm unable to do too much having parents and being young.
I'm young. Very young. I have a huge future. It'll seem fast, I'm sure.
Summer, two weeks into summer, and it feels like it went to fast. This last week was so fucked. I hated it. Every minute. EVERY minute, I hated.
Now that it is today, I am happy. Not fully happy, I don't know why, but satisfied. I feel terrible anyways. I feel sick. I've been away for too long, and can't handle it.
Still can't handle it?
I'm home. I need nine days of being home now.
After Papa's look at the dinner table the night I arrived, I couldn't handle talking to him. I'm not comfortable talking to him. Not at all. Papa thinks I'm stupid and will have a very unsuccesful life. That's what he thinks, I know how he thinks, I'm his blood. I'm my dad's blood, and he's thinking the same damn thing.
McB's parents are better for me than my own. McB's are, and last night they did more than enough. Well, his mom did, actually. His dad just ordered up a pizza.
Papa has two looks that I have seen and that I have thought about and cried about. The "serial killer" and the "unsuccesful" look. He thinks I'm gonna be unsuccesful in life.
At the dinner table, Papa asked me what sports I was gonna be playing this summer. I said none. He asked me what I played this year. Just golf.
Then Dad cut in, "But [the Fat One] has been in Volleyball AND basketball and kept her grades up. Its really impressive."
How the fuck is that supposed to make me feel?
Like shit. So I felt like shit...the whole rest of the trip. Dad didn't stop that the whole trip. He talked to Papa about how bad and "sassy" I am the whole year. About my "depression."
Throughout this school year, he has also been calling Papa many times. So he was making sure that I heard this. Papa had already heard it. He was trying to hurt me.
He said everything like a joke, so when I come up to him "Hey, it was just a joke." Right? That's the main reason for everybody. Excuse.
Excuses are like assholes. Everybody has one, and they all stink.
Things hurt, but they're all just jokes, right?
Remember, they're never JUST jokes, everybody. Neverever.
My father was trying to hurt me.
Papa would never hurt me. His little look was just what he was thinking, coming out. He didn�t do it on purpose. I had to learn this. Learn that he would never hurt me. He never had to tell me so. Just the way he treated me the rest of the vacation. He treated me well. Not perfectly, but he told me he loved me and is there for whenever. So, that�s all I needed from him. What do I need from my dad?
Nothing. I prefer nothing over anything from him. I want him to just do nothing at all. I don�t want him to be unable to do nothing, I don�t want him dead, I just want him to know what�s right. I want him to do nothing. He should know what�s right.
I don�t always get what I want, so he should already know that.
Papa and I have always been best friends. We are best buddies. He gave me a picture of just him for Christmas two years ago. He gave me one, and nobody else. No one. He had an extra picture taken of him just for me. He also has a picture of me on his computer. On it. Taped to it. That and a Calvin and Hobbes cartoon that I printed off the internet for him.
~~~~
Last night I told my dad that his behavior this past week was terrible and extrememly hurtful. He had no fucking idea what I was talking about.
"Did you have fun this last week?"
"Yes, of course I did."
"Then nevermind."
Then Mom and I talked about everything a little later. Anything and everything. We might be going up north this weekend for 5 days and the Fat One says that she won't go if Vicky goes. The Fat One and Dad are saying that Vicky can't come, and that I have no choice but to go. I stood up from the dinner table and told them not to act like that and said to Dad what I thought about his behavior this past week.
I stormed out of the room, and later, Mom told me that Diana said "This is going to be the worst birthday ever."
So, I feel like shit once again. Stronger, because I already felt like shit. I don't wanna ruin her birthday, but I cannot stand my family for so long. I talked to Mom enough that she wants Vicky up north.
Other friends can't go because its too long of a weekend. I'll take them up for a weekend, but I think that's as long as my parents want.
I said if Vicky doesn't go, I won't go, and then left the room.
Left the room to watch "Braveheart." That movie is really awesome. I stopped it to talk to Mom, and finished it later.
I stayed up really late cleaning out my closet. Really cleaning it out, even though its still not clean clean. I just threw away some trash.
I am just bored right now, even though I've had two people call me asking to do stuff, which I won't.
SO, this SHIT, I'm going up NORTH for another 5 DAMN FUCKING days. I'm going to die up there if nobody comes. Vicky, or I'm just going to be pissed off, and crying like a little baby for five days. Pray for me people, that my dad doesn't fuck me up even more. I'm gonna die.
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