I'm bad I'm bad I'm bad I'm bad I'm bad I'm bad I'm bad I'm bad I'm bad it hurts it hurts it hurts I'm bad I'm bad I'm bad I'm bad I'm bad I'm bad I'm bad I don't want it anymore...
Here. Take it.
Take their marble floors. Grow up in their climate-controlled mausoleum. TAKE IT. Somebody. Anybody.
Come watch TV with your parents, what's wrong with you?
What kind of shoes are those?!?
"They're sports shoes, mom"
They're boots! Why do you have to wear boots?!? What kind of lady are you?!?
"I'm sorry, mom."
Put that book down! How can you read all the time? How can you bring a book to your parents' house?!?
"You're watching TV, and I'm reading mom."
Why can't you ever do anything with us? Were we bad parents IS THAT IT?!? What's wrong with you?!?
So I put the book down, fingering it's worn and not-very-collector's-editionned pages from my lap, and watched some blond man with a bottled tan whirl a stick around and walk with tigers.
Why don't you ever talk to us?
"About what, mom?"
About your love life!
"I met this guy at a comic book convention, mom"
What are you doing in a comic book convention?! That's no place for a lady!
"Alright, I met him at work, mom"
You shouldn't date people you work with!
"Okay, I met him in a bar, mom..."
IN A BAR?!? See, I told you she was an alcoholic! What are you doing driving?!?
"I'm not an alcoholic, dad"
How would you know, you're just a stupid girl!
"I'm sorry, dad"
And on. And on and on and on and on.
I'm bad I'm bad I'm bad I'm bad I'm bad I'm bad I'm bad I'm bad I'm bad I'm bad I'm bad I'm bad I'm bad I'm bad I'm bad I'm bad I'm bad.
I'm self-righteous for not liking the TV shows my sister races down the stairs for.
I'm self-righteous for getting a motorcycle permit. I'm self-righteous for liking computers.
Why can't you be more like Dori's daughter?
"Who?"
Sharon. She's in Israel, studying medicine.
"Because I didn't like living in Israel, and I don't want to be a doctor."
What's wrong with you? How did we end up with such a bad daughter, we were such good parents, when are you going to grow up and act like you're supposed to...
Oh, but I'll be back on Friday and Saturday for the new Year's celebrations, right?
It hurts, and if I was as brave a corporate whore as I was a kid, I'd do something horrible or drastic or spasmodic.
I push myself too hard.
And then I come "home" to... To me. The Bad Person.
I want to move to France. To a different timezone. To a different life like the one I tasted for a year.
Away from this TVTVTVTVTV culture. Away from Them. Away from where the office smells like deodorant and moneymoneymoney is the only important thing.
Away from hamburgers. Away from Budweiser. Away from cars too big to believe with neon glinting off their oversized asses to emphasize how stupid they are.
Away.
Away from monolingualism. Away from english speaking people with no understanding of how simple their language, and hence their very thought processes are.
Away. From all of you.
Almost. And I've been over that list before, but I wish you knew how sweet you make the first conscious breath in every morning.
How livable you make this place, because without you, even dreaming of France wouldn't be enough.
Oh, if I were as brave as I was a child, and as lonely, if I were anywhere nearly as lonely --
I'd be gone by now.
But I've got you.