Yeah, I Think I'm Done With This.

Forward Warning: This is a rant.

So, I think I'm finally settling down on a few terms my older brother hinted at Mother's day weekend. Basically, we're the middle children; therefore we always get crapped on.

I don't know, anymore. I mean, it's getting ridiculous how much my parents let my youngest brother get away with stuff. They both know the pile of drugs he does, yet they still give him fifteen bucks every other day he asks. Me? I've been saving up twenty bucks here and there my dad gives me one every three weeks and finally, just now afforded concert tickets.

I don't even know how to deal with this family anymore. My oldest brother's...well, let's just say I wanna strangle him sometimes. It's just the same old, same old games they play on our mom (since the two oldest have a different dad). He can manage to weasel money out of my mom and grandmother, even worse.

I guess the main thing about this that's bugging me is the fact that I asked my mom two weeks ago if I could get a new pair of pants because I wear all of my jeans to the point where they literally fall apart. What does she say? "Next payday."

Well, next payday rolls around, and I ask her. What's the answer this time? "No, I have bills to pay." Really? 'Cause I was there when you paid four of your six, and it's not exactly like you get a hundred bucks a paycheck. Jesus, woman. All I'm asking for is a pair of pants that aren't ripped at the feet, knees and butt!

But, anyways, back to the points my brother, Ryan, made. Basically, he told me that no matter what we do, we'll always get crapped on because of the place we fall in. Fred will always be the first born, therefore always spoiled. Jesse will always be the baby, therefore twice as spoiled. Ry and I basically have to fend for ourselves and take the risks we have to, to get away from the house in which we were raised in.

It was pretty sad, that weekend. Ryan basically sat me down and told me that I couldn't count on anyone in this house, which I'm seeing as true. I mean, he did live through it already, so he would know, right?

Thing is, I never thought Ryan would have this kind of conversation with me. See, as kids, we never got along. He used to pick on me, beat me up and literally break my glasses with pillows. Since I'm almost eighteen, he knows that by now I know just how my parents are.

He went on telling me that no matter what happened, he'd be there for me just like the big brother he should be. After I told him about my parents' insights on getting me a car, he said if it came down to it, he'd get one for me. I'm not saying I should pin all that on him, but let's face it: I'm never gonna get a car, unless I pay for it myself, which is difficult because 1) No one around here is hiring and 2) My parents work weird shifts and are never home at the same times, so I'd end up always being late.

Ryan said, even if things got seriously bad (which they do seem to be sliding down a slope at the moment), he'd even move me to Pittsburgh and run me back and forth to school, two hours away because it's not fair for my parents to want to ship me to another school my senior year because they can't handle being together.

I don't know, Mibba. I guess all this stuff is actually sinking in now. I mean, I've found myself actually just pulling away from my family and secluding myself with a notebook and my iPod. I don't think I've ever relied on music more than I have these last couple of weeks, which is an insane thought for me because I always have music going.

But, yeah. I think I'm done with this family as much as I can be.
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On another note, Mibba... I am almost a senior. My junior year is going so freaking fast; it's ridiculous. I hate to see this year's seniors go, but what can I do? Sure I'm friends with more of them than my own grade, but it's not like I can stop them from graduating. Eh, even though I don't want it to, I hope next year goes fast, and I can get away from that school and this house.

But, until next time, Mibba… I’m being forced to go camping tomorrow.