youthless and pretending with their bare hands holding nothing

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this wednesday, i was studying late; it was around four in the morning and my aunt came down to keep me company-- she browsed through the cookbooks that she bought at barnes and nobles earlier during the day while i pored over my study packets, drinking a mixture of black coffee and bacchus that she smacked me upside the head for even thinking of.
later on, at around 530 she made my favorite midnight snack for me-- eggs and soy sauce over rice, and heated up pita bread and brought out the hummus my mother got at trader joes. we laughed and talked about how she fell while walking down the produce aisle; we talked about french films and talent.


and earlier this week, before my aunt came, i cried. and cried and cried, hyperventilated and wrote about three pages worth of teenage angst and vindication. not because my computer broke down or because i was on the phone with a dell representative for three fucking hours only to conclude that i needed to reinstall windows entirely, and therefore reboot the entire system, losing everything; not because i was frustrated or because i had to take apart my entire monitor with some passive aggressive lady on the phone, instructing me, but because at the end of it all, when my father asked me why it all happened and i said that i don't know, he got angry and said "how could you not know." and that moved on to me thinking that he was blaming me, and him getting angrier because i seemed what, weak? too sensitive? too feminine?
well i am sensitive. i'm a female and yes, what my father says when he's angry does have an effect on me, especially when he blames me on basis of assumption and judgment. i choked out to my mother that he expects to much, that he assumes too much, and she said that she knows, but to be forgiving because that's his nature-- unable to express his feelings, rash with his words.
i hate it. i hate it so much that i'm about to cry again right now out of pure frustration.

what bothers me most is the fact that he doesn't know.
he doesn't know anything about what i've done or what i've been through, and if those who did know saw me crying, i think they'd wonder why i was bawling like an infant over something that didn't even measure up to a tenth of the other things that have happened thus far to me, because of me. i feel like he underestimates me, like he has no right to expect or judge me, even if he is my father.


today we went to arcadia to din tai fung for some dumplings. my great aunt bought me dior show mascara from sephora after i helped her pick out her lip liner, and we walked around westfield exhausting ourselves.

my mother makes me so angry sometimes, like when she shares the chocolate i got for christmas with my great aunt, and i say, jokingly, "hey, that's mine." and she thinks i'm serious, glares at me as if i'm the most selfish being she's ever seen, and when i say that i'm joking, she says something spiteful about how i'm not. i never am joking whenever someone touches me things.
what am i, a petulant child?
regardless of what i am, both my parents seem to think that they know enough to make assumptions that slice through that thin layer of affection i keep around my relationship with them; it really stings when the people you expect to know the most about you, the people you expect to at least try and understand you, say things and judge you in a manner that is entirely opposite of how you view yourself. they say that you are everything that you don't want to be, and all you want to do is go to your room and fall asleep as quickly as possible.


i'm going to be so sad when my aunt has to leave for korea.
my great aunt is falling asleep on the couch as she watching korean dramas, my aunt is in the massage chair, lounging it for what it's worth.
and for tonight i don't think i'll need to write anymore.















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