double standards or safety tips.

Oh lovely parents of mine, you both seem to use the excuse, “well, your brother’s a boy,” quite a lot. But does it actually make sense to you? I’ve been hearing that phrase since I was just a mere child. Understandable. No disagreement there. I am 20 years old now. By no means an adult, in my eyes, but old enough to make a few serious decisions on her own. Yet you both believe I do not have any sense in what is dangerous or spooky, what I should avoid and do. If you remember correctly, my 24 year old brother does not have a clean track record. He crashed the car, the car that was supposed to be mine as soon as I got my driving license. Completely wrecked. Sweet mother, you gave him another car, a bigger car, a jeep. How nice for him. Did he pay you back? Don’t think so. So what in your oh so precious mind made you give him another car? Is it because he likes to hang out with the hooligans and teenage alcoholics from the neighborhood? Or is it because he started dated a 16 year old two years ago? Maybe it’s because he never graduated college, not even a year. Am I getting close? Hmm, maybe it’s his ever so kind demeanor, such as the time he punched you in the face and destroyed your retina? Or maybe when he raped his ex girlfriend? I don’t think I’ll ever understand your relationship with him.  But hold the phone, I recall a moment when I was around 7 and I watched a vhs of porn that my angelic brother happened to introduce to me, and you threatened to disown me. Funny. Never remembered you saying that to him that day. Oh that’s right, he’s a boy. Stupid girl, how could I forget. I never will understand this sick connection you have with him. But don’t worry, it’s only fucked with my emotions to the point that trust and openness is not an option for me with any one.
Dear father, you worked hard and you drank hard. My childhood tears during every holiday watching you sloppily make a fool of yourself were simply tears wasted. My fault. Holidays are dead to me. I dread their arrival. But yet you still found the time to hang out and teach me a few useful things. A little better than Mother, but with the same degrading attitude towards me. As I’ve tried so hard to do what would have made you proud, what would have distinguished me from living under the same roof as my brother, meant nothing. Simply surpassed like a leaf in the wind. I shouldn’t even have tried. It was no use. It became more demeaning to myself than your neglect towards me. But yet, I am still dependent on you and don’t know how to change into what I want to become. Fucked up writing and fucked up thoughts will have no bearing on my future. These regrets have become ammunition for my self-loathing and self-hatred because in reality trying to trust people is a joke. Family is a joke. I’ll deal with this on my own such as I’ve dealt with everything else. 

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weekly existential crises

Beginning to realize that my future career should have been determined before I even knew what college to go. Always a late bloomer. More of a “depends on the current mood” type of gal. Never considered my “future” as a big spectacle. But here I am, watching the end of Escape to New York, randomly chosen from my current boredom and existential anxiety. A Jon Carpenter film though, always a plus. Deciding what internship to apply to was just a dart in the dark, pretty much whichever job wanted to give me an interview. No. What I really want to do is watch and analyze movies. White or black. Scary or funny. Childish or NC 17. Alternatively, I would have loved to profile some serial killers or go into forensics. But I’m not good in science nor math. I should have stayed pre-med. I should have attempted chemistry and calculus. Maybe if I motivated myself enough, I could have pulled through. HA. Who am I kidding? I’m not even motivated enough to get the tv remote two feet away from me. What I am good at is sleeping and disrupting my sleep pattern until I become nocturnal. 
But what am I really good at? Copying and pasting people’s words? Developing an obsession with a character or film? What kind of career can I get when I can’t even talk to people. As my social anxiety rises, my common sense diminishes. Jealousy was never my forte but when I think about my ex friends who have gone off and studied what I would have done anything for, then I’m a little pissed. She wouldn’t even have gotten into it if I never introduced it to her. But I have cinema studies. With a goal of somehow becoming rich and famous through a miracle that will follow my minoring in cinema studies, I’ll get to the top. After all, I did choose New York University for the celebrity and rich white people surroundings. Was that enough? Still at home, with my parents, contemplating what they would think of my choices, I become a dysfunctional mutated insect, without wings or any sense of direction. Just another drone. A working bee. But am I working? Every day seems like wasted. Like a blooming flower by day. And a rotten dead leaf by night. I even suck at describing my life.
I’m such a debbie downer. Things have worked out for me in the past because I don’t have high expectations. I never worried until now. Things seem so easy when people finally become successful. It seems so quick and painless. Maybe because they do that “work hard, play hard” routine. I was never allowed to play. Double standards and general social anxiety have destroyed most of my chances. Now I’m in a rut wondering what the hell to do with this degree I studying for. 

Maybe things will work out in the end. Or maybe I’m just not doing what I need to be doing.