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The Girl
My name is Morgan and I'm going to be 18 this year. I live in Portage, PA, a dismal drug town. I'm a vegetarian, animal lover, and an athlete. I play volleyball and run distance in track. Plan on attending community college for my general studies and attending Mount Aloysius to study Criminal Justice/Forensic Accounting and hopefully go into the FBI or CIA.
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My diary, my space, my rights. Don't like what you see? Feel free to hit that little X up there. Thanks.
Someone please teach me to drive *tear*
...written on 2004-05-05, @ 3:23 p.m.
So much seems to run through my mind. So much worry and concern. My concerns deal with a lot but for now, it's more for my future and if I'll fail in life. Life seems to be getting no where. As if someone decided that they wanted to piss me off by glueing me to this exact moment in time and that I'll be here forever.
I don't want to grow up overnight but I want to at least start now with getting my life ready to live on my own. I've been trying but those people who call themselves parents have done jack shit to help me. Why is it that they want me out but yet won't even try to lift a finger and help?
Me: "Mom, I need a job. Can I get one?"
Mom:"You'll get a job when you can drive."
Me: "But if you'd actually let me hop into the seat of the truck for once instead of saying NO all the time to me asking you if I could drive, than maybe I would be able to get my license in two months and get a job. I could buy my OWN clothes and you won't need to give me a cent. I already have a car but NO, you won't let me learn...tell me why?
Mom (*sighs God I hate this sigh...even though I do it too.) "You live under this roof, what more do you want? I feed you, and keep the clothes on your back. What more do you want?"
(By this time, I was seriously fucking pissed...)
Me: "I never asked to be born did I? I didn't ask to live here and finally have be asked to get the hell out like you told me to when I was fourteen. Why do you do this to me? I'm leaving in another year. Are you not happy that I'm going to be out of your hair? I know you hate me and don't want to lift a finger to help me be on my way but it'd be nice to know that you at least cared that I was growing up and you were proud of me and my accomplishments... But no, you rather lay about the house sighing over and over again like you do, popping your little pills to stay mechanically happy and "out of pain". You complain that you have to run all the way down to Portage to pick me up from all the things I do that make ME HAPPY when in two months I could be enjoying the thing we all call driving and you could keep yourself at home. I don't understand you. I thought I had your personality but really I'm glad that I don't need crap like that to make myself happy. I'm glad I'm not like you at all...
And at that point she wouldn't talk to me for umm...about two weeks but that's okay. I didn't mind the silence. It was the sighing that got to me! God I hate that sighing. I think she's the source to my anger and fustration. All the women on my mother's side are nut jobs who need pills...