I guess in the end, you start thinking about the beginning

I have had a monumental 'disagreement' with my parents. Let's not go into the finer details but lets just say they are trying to prevent me from doing something which I believe is of benefit to me. Surely if it's going to help me then by extension it's going to help them right? Well apparently not - I must stop 'messing around' and start being the 'perfect daughter I used to be'.

I'm sorry to inform my parents that I never have been perfect, and am now even further away from that unacheivable state. I know that I am a mere 16 years old and I know that sometimes I really do act like an apathetic teenager - but you have to grant me that a lot of the time, I'm not half bad for a mid-teen girl.

According to those so-called 'bringers of wisdom' I am an awful person and the moment and am inflicting my selfish tendencies and 'stupid problems which are non-existent' on most people within a 20-mile radius of myself. So most of Guernsey then.

Now you'd be forgiven for dismissing this as a post-argument rant, but it's more than that - plus that was two days ago. Yes I am still harping on about it. I've not stopped thinking about some things said since that day.

When on earth did the two of them start talking anyway? Last time I knew anything about it they only spoke through lawyers, myself, or loud-hailers in the streets. Next thing I know Dad shows up in the middle of fucking suburbia and stands on one side of the breakfast bar, next to Mum, and I stand on the opposite - not listening to every word yelled at first because usually when he yells he's pissed out of his head and she's suffering with PMT. Not only does he look out of place in stupid suburbia - he should stick to his bloody town house - but if they're going to talk without me knowing, I'd rather it wasn't only to discuss how badly I've turned out.

Which brings me to my title, what the hell went so wrong? I still have a picture of my Mum, my Dad, my first sister and myself - sitting in the garden, smiling and drinking tea (milk in Jemma's case - she was a baby), like nothing was wrong. In fact the bastard had another woman and Mum refused to let him go, refused to admit it - the last family photo I have, is a fucking fake.

Nikita - the Good Student, Consciencious, Popular, Funny, Happy. Well sorry Mum, sorry Dad - that's all a load of shit. I decide what I'm like, if I want a label I'll damn well write it myself.

Thanks all the same