I had planned a great entry for tonight — a won­der­ful soap­box about how com­pletely *fucked* up we, as a soci­ety, and more pre­cisely, teens are today. But I just received an e-mail from Megan that I feel the need to respond to in a pub­lic forum. So here it goes:

From: Megan Trim­ble
To: chris@chrislanphear.com
Sub­ject: being pissy

Hi, love.

Dis­cal­imer: this is a vent­ing note, so if you are already in a bad/tired mood, you prob­a­bly should stop reading.

So, Tara had a but­ton on today that said: Stress is when you wake up scream­ing and real­ize you haven't fallen asleep yet.

That pretty much describes how I feel right now.

As usual, noth­ing went right with the show tonight. Half the actors missed their entrances and the other half for­got all their lines and most of them lost parts of their cos­tumes. The board went insane and started ran­domly jump­ing from cue to cue. All the props got either lost, mis­placed, stolen, or bro­ken, and even the pit was suck­ing it up. I'm about to scream; cover your ears …
AAIIEEAAUUEERRGGHH!!!!!! [snip]

Yeah, that didn't help.

[edit: con­tent]

So, I was already hav­ing the night from hell and then I decided to come home. So, I thought, great, I'll come home and have some food (not eat­ing is doing won­ders for my cramps) and type all my home­work (which I'd already hand­writ­ten in the green­room). Rii­i­i­ight. Instead, I came in and smelled this really gross fish smell, which instantly made me want to throw up. Then I went to talk to my mom and she told me that after the load in at Open­stage on Sun­day and the strike at Rocky (also on Sun­day) I have to come straight home and not do any­thing with you or any­one else. I was like, "Ok, but on Mon­day I have to be at the Lin­coln cen­ter for a Hot L Bal­ti­more rehearsal. And I can take Leen with me if you really want me to." Mom got all mad and said no, I wasn't com­mit­ing any more time exclu­sively to the­ater, espe­cially not for free, and if Open­stage had a small job they wanted me to do that I'd only need to be there for one or two nights for, then I might be able to do that but oth­er­wise I wasn't allowed. Imme­di­ately, I got all pissed off and said,"Too bad, I'm doing it any­way."
Mom told me," No, first you're get­ting an actual pay­ing job and pay­ing Dad and I the $500 for insur­ance and then you're apply­ing for all the colleges/scholarships that you've been putting off."

Great.

Then, to add insult to injury, she added," This is your senior year and you should be hav­ing fun!"

OH FUCK HER!!!!!!!!!!!!

I don't have any fuck­ing time to fuck­ing have fun, all I have time for (barely) is fuck­ing school, home­work, god­damn col­lege appli­ca­tions, and any other fuck­ing thing *she* wants me to do!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

So I told her for­get it, why is it ok for me to give all my time to Rocky the­ater but as soon as I try to branch out it's not ok? She told me I could do it, but if I did I would have to move out and give up the car … talk about caught between a rock and a hard place. With­out the car, I have no chance of get­ting a job, which I am real­iz­ing I really, REALLY need. If I had a lit­tle money maybe I could buy myself a car and move out … that would be nice … yeah, dream on Megan, but I do really need money.

Okay, here's my prob­lem with Megan's par­ents: They are way too fuck­ing con­trol­ling! For some rea­son, they feel the need to teach their daugh­ters that they aren't allowed to think for them­selves and the only peo­ple that they should need to please are *them*.

I am so fuck­ing sick of her par­ents doing this to her… I can't even imag­ine how she's feel­ing (out­side the con­text of this e-mail). We both know that her par­ents aren't going to do some­thing dras­tic like take the car away or force her to move out— it's just an empty threat. And even though I've told Megan this many times, unfor­tu­nately, it works.

So, sigh, all this news did not exactly make me happy. I'm sorry I've had to dump it all on you, since I'm sure it isn't at all what you wanted to hear, either. Well, that's the story of my life for the next few months. FIND A FUCKING JOB. I wish it were that easy. Maybe I'll go work at McDon­alds. Ok, maybe I should stop feel­ing sorry for my spoiled self and do some­thing about it …
*sob* this was not what I wanted to come home to …

I'm not wor­ried about her dump­ing this on me… I'm just wor­ried about what this is doing to her. I can't even imag­ine try­ing to do this to my own kids! What hypocrites…

Once again, sorry to have dumped all this on you. I feel awful, because I really wanted to do Hot L Bal­ti­more together and now I just don't know if that'll hap­pen… I'm so sorry … I feel awful .… .… .… .

She has no rea­son to feel awful— this isn't her fault. God! If only the world were fair to good peo­ple… But I guess that's just too much to ask.

Well, I guess I'd bet­ter get going. I'm sure you have bet­ter things to do than lis­ten to me whine. I love you, and no mat­ter how stressed out I get or how pissed off at the rest of the world, I will *always* love you. Please don't let me ruin that because I have a feel­ing I'm com­ing up on some tough times and I'm really, really going to need you. (not that I don't already, but you understand …)

Ok, I'll see you tomor­row. I love you!

xox­ox­ox­ox­oxox

love,
Megan

Feel bet­ter, baby. Now that we've both vented, we can only hope for the best…

[Nor­mal pro­gram­ming to resume tomorrow.]