Bitter Pills

[x_los]

Watched Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas tonight. I really liked it. Depp still kicks major arse, and his acting prowess is sexy.

Purchased Harry Potter DVDs of my own to take away to college with me at our brand spakin' new Best Buy, as well as Reservoir Dogs, which I have never seen. It was only ten dollars, and I trust Quintin Tarentino, so the purchase was made. Molly and I made a list of basic movies I need to own, and I was dismayed at the size, especially as, to me at least, they were bare essentials. The term 'video library' is inherently gimmicky, and I hate it.

I'm a sour apple because the Zim fic I'm writing for and possibly with nacilmiel will not work itself out. I will give it a fresh eye in the morning, but the point of view is unsatisfying and the ending, the most important part of it, will not come together. Tres depressing. I'm planning on posting it in zimfics when done, as I love that community and am sad for lurking without contributing.

The luggage caught up with my newly-restored family, who, by the way, survived the Orlando hurricanes by barricading themselves in a Disney resort with the five star chefs. I am happy that this is one vacation I declined to be a part of. Between Disney world, mom and Kim bickering and natural disasters staying home was so the wisest option it's not even funny.

They bought me two shirts. My 15 year old sister Molly unveiled the first as if she thought I would really like it. Micky was rather boldly emblazoned across the front, and the color was a weird washed out light blue and dirty brown, as if it were a gloomy tie-die victim. The shirt looked very much like it might have been sold at Wal Mart, but my mom spoke of it so earnestly I could tell that she had really expected me to be all 'awesome!'. All I could do was stand there with a dumb look on my face; I couldn't summon up enough gumption to lie about liking it. It made me feel so guilty my chest constricted. I couldn't like it. The urbane part of me was amused/horrified that apparently when my mom thinks of me to buy a gift, this is the kind of person she thinks of. The girl who willingly adds this shirt to her wardrobe.

Also, apparently my step-dad Kim sponsored the purchase of an asinine 'Grumpy Debate Club: I'm Right, Debate Over' sleep shirt for me. Please note that I'm being 'subtly' lectured by a paranoid schizophrenic with anger problems who has uttered such gems as 'Mexico City had little crime because it had so few black people' and 'If those Jews in the ghettos had really had any initiative, they could have revolted and there never would have been a holocaust.' and stuck by both through long, pointless arguments that frustrated me to the point of tears.

I slipped it in Molly's suitcase, somewhat angry at myself for my lack of gratitude but more hurt and irritated with them- in all of the spending involved in this trip, which cost my mother around $20,000 (Disney magic doesn't come cheap- but if she dares bitch about my college costs after splurging like this she can expect no sympathy from me), they couldn't buy me something that didn't insult me or suck balls? What the fuck did I do to them? They didn't know me well enough to get me anything that failed to suck?

My mom maintains that, as usual, I didn't like them because she did. Oh, the arrogance of an empowered Republican middle-aged woman.