August 17, 1999.

My cat isn't dead.

My parents hate pets; I've never had anything bigger than a gerbil. All my life I've wanted a cat. When I was very young, I used to believe that I was a cat, that I had been one in a previous life or something. Yes, all children are insane. But that's what I heartfeltly believed. But when Ceilidh wakes me up for the 5th time in a night or when I cry over two strangers accounts of their dead cats, I wonder if I was spared a lot of misery, or at least another excuse to be aloof.

I've been hiding out at Froghopper Nook since Sunday. There were quite a few reasons; partly it was because I missed the Boy so much, which kind of amuses me in an ironic sort of way...we've been together for over a year and we still need to see each other every day. Not very mature, but it's something real to live for. So I played house for 2 days, cleaning the kitchen & waiting for the Boy to return from his assignment at the Foam Factory. I felt a little retro & unfeminist doing so, but hey, somebody's go to clean the fucking kitchen, and it might as well be the person who's done nothing but lie on the couch all day.

(Yeah. Almost two days spent doing nothing. What can I say? There was a lot of lying around to do, and I couldn't leave until it was done.)

But the most vital & present reason that I was hiding was that I'm fighting with my parents. Was fighting, I mean. I've decided not to rise to any challenges any more, which is going to be mighty difficult. I'm an argumentative girl, and I'm the spawn of argumentative parents. Every day the possibility of an ugly emotional conflict of wills rears its' head.

And they play soooo dirty...

Anyway, my mom & I had a huge fight as she was driving me to the subway station. I was extremely resentful of their recent meddling into my affairs with the phone company (ones that have nothing to do with Dav, mind you). I get tired of being called immature, you know? And she, for her part, disliked feeling on the emotional defensive when she is doing her daughter a favour. By the time we parted ways, we were both pretty upset. Her parting shot, "go off to your carefree life of leisure" pretty much ruined my entire visit. I felt sick & guilty the whole time, because I do coast on other people's goodwill. Whether it's Pixie Stix & Q picking up the cable bill at Froghopper Nook or my parents paying my tuition without a quibble or the Boy letting me hang around the house all day to eat his pasta & read his Tick comix, it's the same sort of thing.

But the crucial difference is how I respond to these acts of kindness. At least with my peers, there's a certain emotional give & take, a degree of parity (I think). And I feel vaguely guilty when I excessively freeload. Yet I've perfectly comfortable taking money & support from my parents without a second thought. Yesterday I mentally went over the costs of my "independent" lifestyle and was sickened to discover that I've equated "mummy & daddy picking up the bill for separate accommodation" & "freedom."

I want to get out. But I want to get out for good. I don't ever want to return to the nest under a cloud of failure. And if that means swallowing an awful lot of shit from time to time, then my fucking attitude is going to improve for the remainder of the year. As much as I resent the arguments, the prying, the meddling and the sudden flare-ups of anger & guilt, I am going to see this through to teacher's college if it fucking kills me. Because then I'll be ready to put my own money where my mouth is.