Ranting is good for me. Quite literally. You see, I'm the medium, the peacemaker, the Tsuna-whenever-Gokudera-get's-mad type of person.
But I'm also a let's-hold-it-all-in type of person. Kinda like Benvolio in Romeo and Juliet. But with boobs and no dick. (I'm pretty sure Benvolio is a man...)
But moving on!
I need to rant. There are things in my life I can't understand and I just can't take it anymore. Truth is, I use to have this little diary, where I would put all sort of funky things in it, writing in it like as if the diary itself was my secret messenger to a secret friend. The bad thing was that my mom read it.
Uh.
EVER HEARD OF PRIVACY?
Yes, I'm a teen and I'm probably doing through some funky phase or whatevers, but I want privacy. I'm growing up and I don't wanna be babied. And don't you know how annoying it is that parents say you're too young to do this, but too old to do that? Like you're old enough to do chores on your own, but you're too young to watch a PG13 movie type of thing.
I have nothing against not watching an R rated movie or even doing chores, but privacy is privacy! And my diary is one of them! My mom read it, and even wrote in it. She even talked to me about it. Now look, I'm just writing in it to vent out some anger I had before I came to my senses. The whole purpose I like keeping a diary is to keep secrets and maybe one day look back on all the weird and funny "conversations" I wrote in my diary.
BUT NO.
BECAUSE APPARENTLY, PRIVACY DOESN'T EXSIST IN ANY PARENT'S DICTIONARY.
Here's the truth, I can't keep bottling these feelings up. And I sure as hell ain't gonna express them (damn slipped into a country accent... =.=").
I don't wanna express myself because I'm sick and tired of people asking why I act like that or give me that dirty look.
And I can't keep bottling these feelings up, because just like they said in Healthy Living, it's bad for you.
Ranting online is the only privacy I can get so far. And nothing bad has happened. Everything's normal, no one's coming up to me asking to take down my blog, and I'm not calling out to anyone.
I feel tired and exhausted when I lock my anger down. I'm not assertive, but passive. I'm not extroverted, but introverted. I'm not funky or cool or outstanding. NO.
I'm like the female version of Canada from Hetalia!
So what the bloody hell? (...my English accent... =.=") I rant. And rant. And rant.
To rant or not to rant. Is my question.
I wonder if there's a fan-made Canada blog...?
Moving on...
So, I always lock my anger down. To the very last drop. The VERY. LAST. DROP.
And I exert the here in this little blog called, "Because I Need to Rant".
I'm not a bad person, which is pretty funky 'cause I myself can't tell I'm a good little angel or the evil devil. But I swear I try my best to make everyone my friend. Albeit, it's difficult 'cause the thought of being the one to initiate the conversation is pretty scary. I'm not like that. I tried starting the convo, but it just goes down the drain when they start making the air awkward by not answering me, or never even glancing at me.
Uh. Hello? I'm standing right here and I'm talking to you. Aren't you being alittle bit rude to me? Huh? HUH?!
...
*deep breathe*
I know that people have a hard time making a good convo towards me, but I do make an effort to talk to other people. Because I love to talk. I'm a girl, and I was originally extroverted (I was bullied as a child, so I became introverted) and I just LOVE talking. I don't give a damn if it's about a hot sexy guy or even about books. I just need some sort of communication.
'Cause that's what I lack in life.
I lack communication. In fact, it a huge problem to me and other people. Y'know how teachers just love group work? Well, huzzah! I'm in a group project!
Wonderful!
Truly spectacular!
Annnnndddddd they don't talk much...
Ughh, I worry about my generation. No, screw that, I'm already worried. Most of the kids I've met were so... troubled. I mean, I'm not saying they're bad people, just... people with very bad experiences. I've met nice people, mean people, bitches, lovers, assholes, idiots, morons, nerds, geeks, sport-fanatics, lesbians and gays, and all the colors of the rainbow. Hell, I even met gangsters (or... that was how they referred themselves as...).
But each and everyone of them, I enjoyed talking to. They atleast talked to me, and I can tell they enjoyed talking to me, too. And they would often talk about their family, their friends, their past. And it was either the good life filled with money, or the dark road with parents doing drugs and other bad stuff.
I'm not saying, they're bad people. They grew up badly. We are children, and either we like it or not, we hold the future. And isn't it the adult's responsibility to take care of that child?
My God, looking back on those people, the parents were mostly the cause of the child's misfortune. My dad, the biggest douche bag you've ever met, beat my mother nearly to death while having sex with her. Do you think it's rape even they are married? I think so. And I was only 5 at the time. It was the first time I saw it happen, or maybe it happened for a long time, and I was too young to remember.
To tell you the truth, I was the downfall of their marriage. They were happy, until they got married, and made a baby named lil' Purima (stated in my older posts, I'm not revealing my real name). My dad started drinking more and more, while mom started to love me less and less. She was very hesitant on having me. And I was unaware of this. I was growing in her belly and, now, knowing all about the growth of a baby inside a women, is pretty disturbing. Saying that I was the one who did that funky kicking in her stomach and eating some of the coffee mom drank. *shivers*
So, when I was officially brought into this world, I would cry and cry and cry. I'm pretty sure my tears could put the Mississippi River to shame. I cried when I pooped, when I peed, when I was hungry, when I was sad, or happy, or laughing. And my mom wasn't ready for it.
While momma was taking care of my crying sad and disgusting mess, dad was fooling with other women in a local bar.
A bar.
How can this get any worse? Oh, there's lots to tell.
One day, my mom was taking care of my as usual. Grandma and grandpa was out at a casino, and daddy was 'out with a friend'. As per usual, I was crying and mom was trying to figure out why. What really happened was that she gave me the wrong type of milk. I was around 18 months old, I think, and I was very sickly. So I cried and cried because the milk mom gave me was wrong and hurted my tummy.
Being only 21 at the time, she threw me on the bed. Threw. Threw me. A baby no older than 18 months old.
My mom was super stressed at the time, doing this and that and trying to keep father in check. But when she threw me on that bed, when I completely stopped crying, she raised hell. My mom panicked, jumping from place to place, grabbing me and trying to call dad. She went into the car and drove like a mad woman to the nearest hospital.
The rest went by quickly. I was hospitalized for a couple of days, the doc telling mom that the reason I was crying was because that I had the wrong milk and that I'm fine at the moment (although I had a slow pulse that grew normal during the next few days). The doctor even said that she needed to relax and calm down. She was flickering her eyes like she's having a dream, her body was shaking like a leaf. She was scared for my life.
And I was uncouncious the whole ride.
To tell you the truth, I'm happy that happened. 'Cause if it didn't, mom would be probably push me up for adoption and stay with dad. Which reminds me. Wanna know what happened while mom was busy worrying for my life?
Drinking at the bar.
Promise me this, reader, that you'll never drink. Or even become an alcoholic. Please don't. My dad completely lost me, and I've given him so many chances to redeem himself. But this time, I can't give him anything else anymore. I know forgiveness must be essential, but I give up. I'm not 'forgiving' him anymore.
What's the point if I wait for someone who I know will never come? And I believed in him. That he'll start over, and start acting like a father.
But no.
He strikes all my hopes down with just an arrow. I'm done. That's it.
He's no longer my 'dad'. He has no right to be called that anyway. A father is someone who is biologically related to you, but the person who raised you into who you are.
If I had anything else to say, mom would be my father and my mother. (lol)
After that incident at the hospital, she spoiled me rotten. And I loved, absolutely loved, the attention she gave me as a child. It was funny, too. She would record me dancing and shaking my bum when every I hear the t.v. play some funky music. She would sing me lullabies in vientamese. She would even help me sign up for sports I want to do or go to the concerts I'm in (when she has time).
If anything, my mom is the stronger woman I've ever met. And I love her.
I kinda feel lucky now... ehehehehe...
I wonder, when I grow up and have my own family, that my children will think the same as I did with my mother...?
Ah, well... if I'll ever catch the golden fish for me...
---Purimaaa
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