Everything All The Time.

Damnit.

It's so very Amanda to hate life. In fact, it's so very pubescent teenager to hate life, so I suppose it evens out. It's supposed to be break, and yet I'm not enjoying it. Fucking visiting with family all weekend was great, I loathe my grandpa and his vile wife though I gladly accepted their $50.00 for Christmas. At this point I'd take a $12.00 check on my birthday over listening to their redundant whining over how I never mailed them my school address (which has been the same for three years) when surprise surprise, telephonic communication is a bit more dependable.

My car is broken, again. I knew someone that once lit his own truck on fire to collect the insurance money. I'm glad he set the example for me, or else I might have considered it. Although, prison doesn't sound half bad right about now, or at least a very even keel based on the true story of the last three years of my life.

I want to be alone. In fact, I'd venture to say that I'm meant to be alone, as all signs are pointing to me being much happier that way. Think of it, endless loneliness to complain about, extra money for new presents to the best significant other ever, myself, no lame ass to tote around and feel self-conscious about in front of the even lamer family of mine... Who am I kidding? It was my calling to be bitter and alone, and I fucked it up by succumbing to dreams of patent leather proms and glittering hopes that litter the pages of Seventeen magazine.

Prepubescent, indeed.