3 February '98
i typed this long journal entry thing out and i don't even type my journal ever. well rarely. and it was mostly about how my parents don't respect my privacy. or maybe just people's privacy in general. and how they sneak up behind me while i'm on the computer. and how i check every five seconds to see if anyone's coming. and how when i don't check, they come and read whatever the fuck i'm writing or saying, you know. and get this. i don't know how much i wrote. maybe a couple pages. and my mother comes up behind me and starts reading whatever i wrote aloud. most of it is about her and my father, of course. then she starts asking ridiculous questions about immigrating computers, because, apparantly, she can't read. and so i instinctly click on the little close button on the corner of this document window, and ta-da, it's gone. without saving. of course. so the moral of this story is: i HATE my parents. i'm sure you've heard that before. so, no, i don't hate my parents. but i don't love them. is that bad? there's nothing i love about them. even that whole "you just love them for being your parents" doesn't work for me. i don't buy it. i don't know if you're born with love. i don't know if you aquire the ability to love as you experience more. i don't know if love is to be earned. or whatever. so they raised me. they fed me. clothed me. gave me shelter. etc. etc. i'm not ungrateful for that. if there were some tangible way of paying them back, i'd gladly do it without another thought. but what the hell? what the hell did they raise? i've never experienced an ounce of affection for or from them. my family is "unhappy" i'm told. is that reflected on me? do i look unhappy? despite every other teacher i've ever had approaching me on the matter, i'm perfectly happy. i obviously have no direction in anything i do (especially journal entries), but.. whatever. right? right. it's like "so fucking what." it's like that movie. and you know, "you have a message. they don't see it, but i do." anyway. back to my parents. put downs. constant put downs. when my father calls me stupid. my mother calls it criticism. when i criticize, my mother calls it putting down. so i shut up. or at least try to. and suddenly i'm depressed. where's the middle ground, right? i'm not going to praise them just because they want me to. and just because they're my parents and "you have to do what we tell you to as long as you're living under our roof." er. fuck your roof? this is all just ramble. my point is that i don't love them. and i don't feel bad or guilty. i don't love them for who they are. and i don't love them for being my parents. and this is evil, i know, but if they died, i'd morn for them like i would morn for a stranger on the street who passed away. i'm not bitter. i'm being honest. and i think i'm tired.