Life Imitates Art

Oh, Oscar Wilde, why do you have to be right?

My life is imitating... well, "art". I suppose you could call it art. A sad attempt at art....

I've been writing a play. Honestly, it's slightly based on my life (because I write what I know) but things are tweaked a little. I always exaggerate my real life problems. So, anyways. In the play, basically the plot is a girl is struggling to support herself and her mum.... why is that actually happening all of a sudden? That's not cool! I'm this close to becoming a stripper named Candy. (Or perhaps you can suggest a better name?)

My mum came home and she's basically out of her mind. No denying her mental problems. She's running out of medicine... the claws are going to come out again, soon. Scary. Anyways, I don't think she can work. She doesn't think she can work... who knows. If she does quit or get fired or whatever, idk what we're going to do. Build a Bear sure isn't going to pay the rent. I'll start looking for another job, I guess... My dad has pretty much abandoned me. I mean, I called him and he got mad because I wouldn't leave the house. (It would break my mother's heart to leave, she said so. No use causing more damage.) He hung up on me. Bastard. I'm so angry.

God. At the court today, one of the lawyers basically was like, Go to college and get a good job. Don't be a stereotype. But maybe that's all I'm going to be. A stereotype. I might as well throw my dreams out right now. No use having them sit around....