Artistic Frustrations and Acute Observations

Utilizing my acute skills of observation and stalker-like tenacity, I have determined that Kevin Durand’s character in ‘I am Number Four’ will look almost exactly like Christopher Walken’s horseman in ‘Sleepy Hollow’–save for Durand being 8 feet tall with black eyes. The sharp teeth, pale skin, black hair all adds up. People are always comparing the two, and now it all makes sense!

Well, sort of. I still don’t know what the hell he’s gonna look like, but I feel like I’ve created my own solution to an unsolvable problem.

So, anyway, I’m very very frustrated. Once again, my 3D art teacher has asked me to buy something which is not available. I am so unbelievably tired of that class, that my one and only goal in life at the moment, is to complete it and GET THE HELL OUT OF THERE. I would like nothing more than to take a baseball bat to everything in that godddamned workshop. I’m sick of creating crappy-looking pieces of ‘art’ which consist of little more than wood and glue, or paper, or–like the most recent project–plastic spiders.

That class is like taking a course in which you walk into a room, your teacher hands you a list of materials that you might need, maybe, and a list of subjects and people from which you might possibly be tested on, in some way. You are never told when, you are never told how, you are just expected to know.

The 3rd dimension is the dimension of everything going horribly. We don’t need a 3rd dimension.

I am my mother’s therapist.

I don’t know how to handle other people’s problems….but that’s never really bothered me.

You know what has bothered me?

My mother’s problems. I want to yell at her, “I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO DO ABOUT YOUR PROBLEMS. YOU ARE A GROWN WOMAN. FIGURE IT OUT OR SHUT UP.” But I can’t scream at my mom to ‘shut up’, so instead I listen and nod as she recants the latest tale of what is going wrong in her life.

This evening, she informed me via Facebook that she forgot her Daughter-in-law’s (my sister-in-law) birthday by 12 days. I insist that as long as she makes a effort to reach out and say, “Happy Birthday!” it’s the thought that counts. People forget things, it happens. My mother, in particular, forgets a lot of things, all the time. It happens, a lot. However, she insists that no matter what, Michelle (the daughter in law in question) will always hate her, and things will only get worse.

She goes on, whining about my brother, who should have reminded her. Yes, I agree–he should know that our mom forgets. A lot.

So listen up, mom. Michelle does not loathe you. You are simply a person who is unhappy with life and you project that all the time. Every conversation is littered with you hating your job…your house…your finances… Something needs to change. No one wants to hang out with you because you are cynical and self-loathing, and worry about everything. If I were Michelle, I would not want to be around you any more than I would have to be.

I love you, mom, but I do not want to be your therapist.

I can’t tell you what I really think.

You need to find a boyfriend, a husband, that you can grow old with, so you can stop leaning on me. I don’t want to carry you all my life. I am not your punching bag. I do not want you living in my basement when I grow up and own a house.

I want a life of my own, where I can go more than a week without seeing you and feeling like I’ve left you home alone, like a puppy with abandonment issues, to tear at the curtains and whine.

I want you to enjoy your life a little more. Have I not turned out the way you would have liked? You place everything upon my success. I am an art student, mom. I will never have enough money to put you in a mansion, or on a perpetual Alaskan cruise. And for that, I am sorry.

I really wish you could read this and not hate me. And I truly believe anyone reading this now hates me. I am a terrible child…but honest. At least online.

Love, your only daughter.