Scoot On ~ Soundrtracks and Comebacks

I’m currently sitting on my bed, without – well, let’s not make everyone uncomfortable – I’m sitting on my bed without things you’d usually sit on a bed with. There we go, disaster averted! I just returned from an afternoon-turned-evening out with a friend, and mama wasn’t too happy. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not one of those kids who “hates their parents” even more than they hate their own sucky teenage lives. I love my mom. I also like to forget t tell her things that, in one way or another, directly affect her.

I like to go out. I’m also sixteen, and have to be driven around. There are no taxis that shall be taken by me after 6:30 PM in summer and 6:10 in winter. Yes, yes, I know, I could just ask my mom to take me places like the rest of you do. That, however, would require asking.

Asking is a simple process, theoretically: you pose a question, and in the case of the parentals it’s usually a ‘yes’ or ‘no’ answer that’s required, and await an answer. As teenagehood goes, questions are asked about where, when, why and what you shall be doing, and there will be talk of dangerous things like drugs and strange strangers in alleyways (but nothing of contact lenses falling out or toddlers who spontaneously throw up on things). And then, you get your answer. I think it’d be a lot easier if the answer came first, but hey, maybe I’ll think differently if I ever birth some baby children.

I DON’T KNOW WHY MY CONTACT LENSES ARE STILL ON MY EYEBALLS. (Actually, It’s because I can’t find their container thing right now. Hold on, I’m looking.)


Update: I just took my contact lenses out using a webcam. And my hands. Also, I’m now wearing a shirt.

Anyway, in my case the main question is usually, “How are you getting there?” and I usually skip that part of the conversation out, or I skip out the entire conversation, i.e I casually whisper that I’m going out and I’ll be back and then, I call my mom (usually with someone else’s phone) to “Please come and pick me up, please please.”

She gets annoyed and rightfully so, and then she sometimes comes out to get me, and other times she doesn’t. But this really is entirely my fault- she’s not neglectful or anything.

Well, as the story goes, I got home and she was in her state of annoyed-angry-confused-hurt, and that’s the least pleasant state. It’s like when somebody tells you that they’re disappointed in you plus your mom shouting at you plus seeing your mom tired – all those little thing compiled into a moment where you have no comeback to what is said, where “I’m disappointed” or “This will be the last time” or “Stop treating people like they’re insignificant” is the only soundtrack that goes along with it.

In my defense, I had no idea how this post was going to go, and this was not the direction that I foresaw.

Soundtracks and Comebacks by Goldfish popped into my head while I was looking at my mom eat, and I don’t know why. I just tried to imagine what the soundtrack to that moment for me would be. If we had to talk strictly music, I’d say Lost Kid, by The Apache Relay. My comeback was “sorry. good night.”

I hope yours is better.

All my love,

Scoot xx

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