angst

If my mother tells me one more time, "Rollie, why can't you fucking act like a girl for once?" I am going to fucking pack my bags and leave, I don't care what happens.
Why does it bother so much that I don't wear skirts or dresses? That I like my hair super-short, and in fact want to shave it off? That I want a nose ring? That I hate carrying purses, and would rather just put everything in the pocket of my jeans? That I like the colors blue and black rather than pink and lavender? That I prefer plaid, spikes, and Hello Kitty to taffeta, lace, and ribbons?
Oh, I know why. Because she can't stand the idea that I, her only biological child, am different. That I'm bisexual, that I prefer writing and playing guitar, that I will never be interested in volleyball or piano. She's already forced me into eleven fucking years of piano! That's all but three years of my life!