Dear Planet Earth,
I don’t even want to talk about it. I should. I should try to find the words to symbolize the innate and chaotic unfairness of it all. But I can’t.
It all started with a fight with my mom and it all ended with a fight with my mom. She randomly decided to lay into me about how I don’t seem to give a shit about anything, and how I’d rather play violent video games and smoke pot with my friends than make the least bit of effort to make something of myself. Of course, she’s completely right.
But the bigger picture here is that I’m seventeen years old. I’m not old enough to buy dry ice, let alone make a lasting impact on the world. I’m a denizen of the 21st century techno-era, where blogs and social media promise anyone can be a celebrity and guarantee that no one ever will. I’m living in a world where mothers care more about their children’s beneath average grades than the mysterious, unprecedented earthquakes that have been occurring in Uganda for the past three days. And of course, these are excuses.
But there should be rules about the kinds of things you can say to your son, and saying that he’s acting just like his father did before he went crazy and started living on the street, that should be one of the things you just can’t say. So, I’m staying at my friends place until that bipolar bitch apologizes or hell freezes over.