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Thanksgiving was actually at home this year because grandma's condition was looking bad so they put her in the hospital. But now they won't let her leave, because when she could eat solid food she couldn't pick up a glass of water with one hand. Now she's got "intensive rehabilitation".

I don't know. I hope I never get that way. I'd rather suicide than get so old and fat and mean that I'm all alone and the only time that I'm on my feet is when I'm transferring from the moped-old-person-thing to the toilet and back again.

It was a quiet day. It wasn't "cheerful" but at least there wasn't any fighting.

But the holiday season is here and I hate hate HATE it. Holidays stopped being fun when...oh, I remember the Christmas. I wonder how old I was.

Is this the third or fourth year of WWIII? Last year Jenny, forget not getting dad a gift and mom and I having to get one and lie that it was from her, didn't give ANYONE anything.

Tonight dad left for gram's again and mom planned to take J and I to Ruby Tuesday's, but that plan ended because Jenny bitched the whole day and then wouldn't walk fifty feet into Hannafords to return a movie. And mum wondered why I didn't even bother tying my shoes before getting in the car. It was because I expected such an outcome. Because all holidays mean is fighting and ending up spending most of my time in my room like normal because I'm so much HAPPIER alone.

I hate not being able to hold on to my hate. It's because I keep forgiving people and letting them hurt me again that I have such paranoid trust issues. I can only take so many tablespoons of poison.

I used to abhor the idea of high school, of college, of a life outside of what I had right then. But now I can't stand the wait. I just have to get out of here. I feel so trapped and going to Starbucks or Borders can't shoddily erase it anymore. I can only be caged for so long.

Here's a really awesome Maya Angelou poem excerpt to properly convey my imprisonment:


The caged bird sings with a fearful trill
Of things unknown but longed for still
And his tune is heard on the distant hill
For the caged bird sings of freedom

The caged bird thinks of another breeze
Of trade winds soft through the sighing trees
And the fat worms waiting on the dawn-bright lawn
And he names the sky his own

But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams
His shadow SHOUTS on a nightmare scream
His wings are clipped and his feet are tied
So he opens his throat to sing