I'm just sitting here listening to Safe Tonight, praying that it'll keep me from doing anything insane. I remember praying the same thing about Radio when I was 14 and here I am, 17 years old, feeling the same thing about the same fucked up pseudo-role model.
What the fuck gives her the right to act like she's better than me? She's a 42 year old divorcee who works part time in a party store and the rest of the time cheats on her taxes by pulling money in from the internet and not reporting it to the IRS. Her last two relationships were with fucked up idiots she met on the internet because she's too much of a fucking loser to go out and meet people face to face. She's repeating the same cycle over and over and she's too fucking self-righteous to realize she could be wrong about the whole thing.
Then there's me. I'm going through the same cycle again and again and I finally tell her I think I found way out of it and she bitches at me for five minutes, telling me it's not the way it supposed to be done, probably because it's not the way SHE did it. FUCK YOU! I don't care how you did it. I don't care that you got knocked up at 15 and were kicked out of school. That's your thing. You were the fucking friendless loser band fag who got fucked over and dropped by some asshole. That's not me. That's never been me. And I don't know what you think gives you the right to think you can pretend to tell me what to do after 17 years of fucking abandoning me on the parental advice front.
It's always about her. If it's not her way, it can't possibly be the right way. Sorry Mom, but your way got you shit. You're not happy with your life. You never have been. And the longer you pretend to be, the longer you perpetuate yourself in this cycle. But admitting you're not happy means admitting you went wrong somewhere in your life and YOU couldn't POSSIBLY have ever been wrong. Cheers to you, Mom. Three cheers to your fucking passive-agressiveness.
Don't throw your shit on me, because we were cut from two completely different cloths. I don't want your life. Hell, if I had your life at 42, I'd probably be in therapy 90 hours a weeks. But you'd never do that, would you Mom? No, that's admitting something's wrong with you and you don't do that. So instead, you let me go to therapy and secretly remain thankful that you're OK. That you're not so fucked up that you can't make it on your own. That you're not insane and you're still better than me. But you know what Mom? I feel sorry for you. Because even if I am more mentally fucked up than you, at least I have the balls to admit it, which in my book makes me more OK than you'll ever be.