Reality is about as worthwhile as cleaning gum off your shoe

Funny how life has this funny way of creatively kicking me in the ass, whenever it gets the chance. I've come to a conclusion about the Bastardly Parental Units:

They have no brains, are blind, and need to be possesed by Linda Blair.

Unfairness has always been one of those things that has plauged me. My brother, the born a drunk redneck, and The Brat, a lets smoke pot, soon to be alcoholic, running away fuckhead have always gotten away with whatever dubious deed it was they were doing. Example?

Redneck Boy comes home drunk for the umpteeth time at 17 after nearly swerving his truck into a tree. What happens?

"Boy, be up early tomorrow. We have stuff for you to do."

Redneck Boy swears at the Bastardly Parental Units and takes off till the wee hours of the morning. What happens?

An all out pretendfest that nothing ever happened.

The Bastardly Parental Units catch the Brat smoking. What happens?

"Empty the ashtray and don't do it anymore."

They call the cops on her two weeks later for running away with some friends who have been giving her drugs. What happens?

"Be nice to your sister Dark (Me, obviously not my real name.). She feels left out."

I get a detention few years ago for forgetting a homework assignment. What happens?

I nearly get strangled to death by the Beast, and am stuck in a room with no TV, books, radio, or anything else of vague interest for over a month.

I mention that I'm eighteen and shouldn't have to beg for every little thing, or give a detailed description of where I'm going every time I leave my room. What happens?

Serious threats about being banned from using the car, which would, in effect, make me lost both of my jobs, and once again resign me to my lifelong prison sentance at home.

I'm not the kind of person to instinctively get themselves into trouble. I'm a dark, cynical person, yes, but not someone who is particularly inclined to really get into serious trouble. The reason? I don't care. I don't have the ambition to bother with sneaking out, nor the desire to make an ass out of myself while high. It's only when I get positively nailed to the proverbial upside down cross for inching towards the normal things people do, like leaving the house while everyone else commits felonies and practically gets a pat on the goddamned back, that I half debate shooting caution to the wind and seeing where Hell takes me.

Fuck this. I want a baseball bat to smash things with. Who knows...maybe if I ask nicely......heh.