waste of my free time

I got a new e-mail address. Do any of you have a Hotmail account? Is there anyone that disagrees with me when I say that Hotmail is like the homeless man with the torn shirt who was eerily reminiscent of Jesus who approached Resa and me while we were walking down the streets of San Francisco, waving his arms wildly and carrying on about his diabetic sister and his dire need for money? Every day I log into that godforsaken account, and every day it's all, "Kate, you have somewhere around thirty new messages, and I would sing Puff the Magic Dragon in front of my grandparents naked if it meant I could be as popular as you," so I log in, and it's -- it's spam! Ravenous, deceiving, write-your-name-in-caps spam! Sometimes I even fall for it and then I get an eyeful of midget porn! The best part about having a 28.8 modem was that you could see a sick-ass picture coming.

So!

I got a new e-mail address, and it is as follows: [email protected].

It's imperative that you remove the REMOVETHIS. I watched my last e-mail account be slaughtered like a packet of ketchup and a six-year-old boy with brand new white tennis shoes. I'm too smart to hide in the same place twice.

Anyway. Send me a message, or something. I like finding a new e-mail in the box. I haven't had a thirty-year-old German man saying he wants to hold my hand and kiss me since I was twelve.

I was only partially kidding just then.

After Pat left for work as a pizza delivery boy, my mom and I headed out so we could buy new jackets for this winter. It took twenty minutes. I know Resa will be proud.

When we returned home, I slipped it out of the bag so I could hang it up in the closet, and my dad chuckled. He commented that I'd look gothic once I put it on.

I'd look gothic in a coat made by -- Anne Klein?

Sure, yeah.

In other news, ever since my mom insisted I be put on birth control, our relationship has been pretty strained. No small wonder, I suppose. I talked with my mom a few months ago about me flying out with Pat to California for Christmas come December, and it seemed as though she was indifferent towards the idea. Pat asked his manager on Friday if he would be able to take off the week of Christmas. His manager explained that as long as he was one of the first three to sign up, he could take however much time he wanted off, within reason. Before he left for work this afternoon, he called his mom, and while he chatted with her about how things were going at Pizza Hut, I searched for ticket prices. I found some reasonable tickets to fly out to California on the 23rd, and then return on the 28th, so I could spend some of Christmas vacation with my family and be here for my mom's birthday on New Years' Eve. Pat's mom agreed to purchase the tickets, and did so over the phone. My parents were at a movie at the time, so when they returned home I was anxious to tell them of the dates that I thought would work. But instead my mom became irritated with me and kept repeating that she wished I had waited to consult her, and even though I apologized, she told me again and again that I couldn't understand. She made it fairly clear that since I would be gone, I would simply miss Christmas, and they would make no attempt to even have a nice dinner with me to exchange presents once I came back. She said that even married couples attempt to compromise whose family they visit on the holidays, and apparently Pat and I were being unreasonable. I told her that, although Pat's mom had already purchased his ticket for him, she could fly me out there some other day, but she brushed the idea aside. She said she'll miss me around Christmastime, but that I probably wouldn't miss being home for Christmas.

Since then, my mom's pinned the blame on me for not returning a movie I rented for my dad, and has nagged me every ten minutes about getting off the computer and doing my homework.

I always heard that when children mature into teenagers, they often crave freedom they won't be granted until they are legal adults, and this causes strained relations between child and parent. Why does it have to be the fault of the rebellious child? Can't it be because the parent sees their child rapidly zipping through the grade levels and instinctively tightens the reins because they feel as though they're steadily losing control over the impressionable young infant they once had?

Sometimes I wish my mom hadn't heard me that one night, and that she still treated me as though she trusted me and didn't talk to me condescendingly.

Bah.

Well, I'd better get to my homework. There's an essay due by Thursday of this week.

Someone e-mail me. Or something. Give me something to do other than complain about my parents during my free time. Please.