Moving Plans, Slicing Through, and Older Women
AJ
Why can’t they just shut the hell up? Is it really that difficult for two people to just call it quits? Adults seem to spend their lives running to and fro telling us children not to bicker. I personally believe that they should practice what they preach. It’s been 2 hours for God’s sake. What could they possibly scream about for 2 hours? If there was definition for “dysfunctional family” in the dictionary, I think it would be: The Jarett Family.
Now, if I was writing this dictionary the definition would be along the lines of: My Family. Yes, it’s true. The honor student, star soccer player, has a screw up family. I’m not just talking the typical family problems. I’m talking about parents who have absolutely no love left for one another, so they chose to scream at each other through the night.
And if that wasn’t enough, Mom could care less about me. Maybe Dad would care more about me if he could put down the beer for more then, eh, let’s say, 2 friggin’ minutes. I honestly don’t really care about my dad anymore. He’s always been slipping in and out of my life. It seems when the price of alcohol goes down, so does the time I see him. At least the house is quieter. He chooses to not come home 3/7 nights a week. I can’t blame him.
He has to put up with Mom. As do I. Ok, so I get a 96 on a test. I have the highest grade in the class. But no, the Jarett kids don’t get 96’s. They get 100’s. And if they don’t like that rule than they can just leave. Hello, take a look at my sister, Amelia. She left the house when she was 16. I have no idea where she is now. She ran away from our small house in Greenville, NC, and went west. Way west. Like, California. I haven’t seen her in 8 months. She made a quick pit stop. That’s beside the point.
The point – there is only one kid left in the Jarett residence, and the other obviously didn’t care what Mom thought. It’s quite apparent. I think it’s slightly humorous as to how she refers to me as “kids”. Yeah, I’m the stupid one. The more I think about it, the more I want to follow in my sisters foot steps. I’m 13, and in two months I’ll be 14. I have a feeling that 14 is my lucky number. My magic number.
I believe it is the age that I will leave home. Hopefully my stupid little conscience won’t get in the way. At mind I am that good little boy… but, at heart I’m a bit more, um, how shall I word this – daring. Funny I attend D.A.R.E. meetings. D.A.R.E. and daring. Maybe their, “no drugs” influence is rubbing me the wrong way. Why fill our heads with reasons not to do something, when kids our age purposely break rules, just to piss our parents and teachers off?
I think it’s so they can say ‘at least we tired’, or ‘they should’ve listened’. Do they even care? They must. Otherwise someone is really insane to set up all of the meetings and what not’s.
You see I am a soon-to-be-man with plenty of opinions, and I stick firmly to them. And sitting around making perfect scores of Science tests isn’t going to get my voice heard. I want to be bold. Loud. I want to make a name for myself. I guess in simple terms you could simply say I want to be, yes you got it…
I want to be daring.
Jenna
Could you write your will without getting a hunch that you’re simply writing your death sentence? I can’t. And that’s exactly why I wrote mine at age 9. ‘Wow’, you may wonder. Or, ‘a 9 year-old can’t be that depressed’. Go ahead and say it. I wouldn’t be surprised. I’ve heard it more than once. That’s a complete understatement. I’ve probably heard it half a thousand times.
I blatantly don’t care. I prefer to think that I am right and that you are wrong. Right about what, you may wonder. I’m right about the fact that I’m depressed. Why? I have no idea. I’ve suffered from it ever since I wrote that God-awful will. Ever since that 9 year-old me had the urge to kill herself. Now a 12 year-old me is scaring away my friends, and my parents are losing hope.
Do I blame them? Not really. If I was a parent I would be scaring myself as well. I mean I went from their little softball champion to the stereotype emo. You see my parents are the type of people who see one thing, and they get that image in their heads. They still believe I have a love for softball. That I’m a champion. What they don’t know is that this dream of theirs came and past 4 years ago. And just for the record, I really doubt it’s coming back for a visit.
I’ve moved on. It’s my parents. They live in the past. Ha, even their clothes, music, everything. It’s all not in style, not in sync with the rest of the world. I mean, I don’t really care. I wouldn’t call my style “normal”. It’s just, I was proving a point.
So what is a parent supposed to do with a girl who is losing her mind, and just happens to be their daughter? Easy – send her to a shrink. I mean, I’m not saying I’m agreeing with this action, but it’s a no brainer. No parent wants their kid to be so sad that they end their own lives, so they do everything they can. And if that means a shrink, it means a shrink.
Sometimes I wonder if my parents really care if I die or not. I’m just a hassle. Always running out of pills. Never quite happy. It’s all apart of my life. You see I keep my suicidal thoughts to myself, and that includes my shrink. Do you think I’m going to tell some Dr. Millbury my innermost secrets? I think the better question is would you?
Back to the point. If they knew that I wanted to step in front of a moving car, smashing bone and metal together, I think they might just go ahead and kill me. Hey, maybe I should tell them. They’d be doing me a favor. You know, the more I think about it the harder it is to find a reasonable reason for my depression. Who am I kidding?
I have every right in the world.
Zane
So, you’re sixteen, and it’s your first time in Vegas. Sure, you can’t gamble, but who said you can’t be awestruck by the blinding lights on the strip? No one. Sometimes when no one is there to support you, you wind up trying to support yourself. Sometimes, when you’re sixteen and you’re trying to support yourself, it doesn’t work out to well. Sometimes when your parents couldn’t care less about you, you wind up being that lonely, lost sixteen-year-old. You could wind up like me.
Yeah, it’s my first time in Vegas, but who said anything about my parents? Especially my mom. In the past sixteen years she had been here 16 times. My dad was a close runner up, with a whopping 14 visits to this blinding city. Before you ask, I’ll answer. Yes, my mom, Carla Venders, is addicted to gambling. And before you go for question number two, I will answer. No, my dad is not addicted to gambling. He has a different type of addiction. Getting wasted.
So that sums up my parents’ past trips to the marvelous city of Las Vegas. My mom spends her time wasting away her money, as my dad tags along and wastes away himself. Pretty picture eh? Yeah, not really. So where does this leave me. It leaves me alone. I’m used to it though. Don’t think that I’m not used to it. My mom lives for the lottery, and when she doesn’t win the daily scratch off card, or the big loot, she becomes irritable. This happens, on average, about every day. And my dad? He doesn’t need Vegas to get wasted.
So, you’re sixteen, and it’s your first time in Vegas. Sure you can’t gamble, but who said you can’t get lost in the lights. Who said you can’t imagine? Who said your imagination can’t run wild? Especially when your parents aren’t the cream of the crop. To me, this trip is beginning to sound very fun.
Smells like trouble.
Why can’t they just shut the hell up? Is it really that difficult for two people to just call it quits? Adults seem to spend their lives running to and fro telling us children not to bicker. I personally believe that they should practice what they preach. It’s been 2 hours for God’s sake. What could they possibly scream about for 2 hours? If there was definition for “dysfunctional family” in the dictionary, I think it would be: The Jarett Family.
Now, if I was writing this dictionary the definition would be along the lines of: My Family. Yes, it’s true. The honor student, star soccer player, has a screw up family. I’m not just talking the typical family problems. I’m talking about parents who have absolutely no love left for one another, so they chose to scream at each other through the night.
And if that wasn’t enough, Mom could care less about me. Maybe Dad would care more about me if he could put down the beer for more then, eh, let’s say, 2 friggin’ minutes. I honestly don’t really care about my dad anymore. He’s always been slipping in and out of my life. It seems when the price of alcohol goes down, so does the time I see him. At least the house is quieter. He chooses to not come home 3/7 nights a week. I can’t blame him.
He has to put up with Mom. As do I. Ok, so I get a 96 on a test. I have the highest grade in the class. But no, the Jarett kids don’t get 96’s. They get 100’s. And if they don’t like that rule than they can just leave. Hello, take a look at my sister, Amelia. She left the house when she was 16. I have no idea where she is now. She ran away from our small house in Greenville, NC, and went west. Way west. Like, California. I haven’t seen her in 8 months. She made a quick pit stop. That’s beside the point.
The point – there is only one kid left in the Jarett residence, and the other obviously didn’t care what Mom thought. It’s quite apparent. I think it’s slightly humorous as to how she refers to me as “kids”. Yeah, I’m the stupid one. The more I think about it, the more I want to follow in my sisters foot steps. I’m 13, and in two months I’ll be 14. I have a feeling that 14 is my lucky number. My magic number.
I believe it is the age that I will leave home. Hopefully my stupid little conscience won’t get in the way. At mind I am that good little boy… but, at heart I’m a bit more, um, how shall I word this – daring. Funny I attend D.A.R.E. meetings. D.A.R.E. and daring. Maybe their, “no drugs” influence is rubbing me the wrong way. Why fill our heads with reasons not to do something, when kids our age purposely break rules, just to piss our parents and teachers off?
I think it’s so they can say ‘at least we tired’, or ‘they should’ve listened’. Do they even care? They must. Otherwise someone is really insane to set up all of the meetings and what not’s.
You see I am a soon-to-be-man with plenty of opinions, and I stick firmly to them. And sitting around making perfect scores of Science tests isn’t going to get my voice heard. I want to be bold. Loud. I want to make a name for myself. I guess in simple terms you could simply say I want to be, yes you got it…
I want to be daring.
Jenna
Could you write your will without getting a hunch that you’re simply writing your death sentence? I can’t. And that’s exactly why I wrote mine at age 9. ‘Wow’, you may wonder. Or, ‘a 9 year-old can’t be that depressed’. Go ahead and say it. I wouldn’t be surprised. I’ve heard it more than once. That’s a complete understatement. I’ve probably heard it half a thousand times.
I blatantly don’t care. I prefer to think that I am right and that you are wrong. Right about what, you may wonder. I’m right about the fact that I’m depressed. Why? I have no idea. I’ve suffered from it ever since I wrote that God-awful will. Ever since that 9 year-old me had the urge to kill herself. Now a 12 year-old me is scaring away my friends, and my parents are losing hope.
Do I blame them? Not really. If I was a parent I would be scaring myself as well. I mean I went from their little softball champion to the stereotype emo. You see my parents are the type of people who see one thing, and they get that image in their heads. They still believe I have a love for softball. That I’m a champion. What they don’t know is that this dream of theirs came and past 4 years ago. And just for the record, I really doubt it’s coming back for a visit.
I’ve moved on. It’s my parents. They live in the past. Ha, even their clothes, music, everything. It’s all not in style, not in sync with the rest of the world. I mean, I don’t really care. I wouldn’t call my style “normal”. It’s just, I was proving a point.
So what is a parent supposed to do with a girl who is losing her mind, and just happens to be their daughter? Easy – send her to a shrink. I mean, I’m not saying I’m agreeing with this action, but it’s a no brainer. No parent wants their kid to be so sad that they end their own lives, so they do everything they can. And if that means a shrink, it means a shrink.
Sometimes I wonder if my parents really care if I die or not. I’m just a hassle. Always running out of pills. Never quite happy. It’s all apart of my life. You see I keep my suicidal thoughts to myself, and that includes my shrink. Do you think I’m going to tell some Dr. Millbury my innermost secrets? I think the better question is would you?
Back to the point. If they knew that I wanted to step in front of a moving car, smashing bone and metal together, I think they might just go ahead and kill me. Hey, maybe I should tell them. They’d be doing me a favor. You know, the more I think about it the harder it is to find a reasonable reason for my depression. Who am I kidding?
I have every right in the world.
Zane
So, you’re sixteen, and it’s your first time in Vegas. Sure, you can’t gamble, but who said you can’t be awestruck by the blinding lights on the strip? No one. Sometimes when no one is there to support you, you wind up trying to support yourself. Sometimes, when you’re sixteen and you’re trying to support yourself, it doesn’t work out to well. Sometimes when your parents couldn’t care less about you, you wind up being that lonely, lost sixteen-year-old. You could wind up like me.
Yeah, it’s my first time in Vegas, but who said anything about my parents? Especially my mom. In the past sixteen years she had been here 16 times. My dad was a close runner up, with a whopping 14 visits to this blinding city. Before you ask, I’ll answer. Yes, my mom, Carla Venders, is addicted to gambling. And before you go for question number two, I will answer. No, my dad is not addicted to gambling. He has a different type of addiction. Getting wasted.
So that sums up my parents’ past trips to the marvelous city of Las Vegas. My mom spends her time wasting away her money, as my dad tags along and wastes away himself. Pretty picture eh? Yeah, not really. So where does this leave me. It leaves me alone. I’m used to it though. Don’t think that I’m not used to it. My mom lives for the lottery, and when she doesn’t win the daily scratch off card, or the big loot, she becomes irritable. This happens, on average, about every day. And my dad? He doesn’t need Vegas to get wasted.
So, you’re sixteen, and it’s your first time in Vegas. Sure you can’t gamble, but who said you can’t get lost in the lights. Who said you can’t imagine? Who said your imagination can’t run wild? Especially when your parents aren’t the cream of the crop. To me, this trip is beginning to sound very fun.
Smells like trouble.
