And I Yelled At Her In Public

Yesterday while I was at H&M with my family, I found out my mom donated my light green flats that I have loved and worn since high school. (See my shoes?)

And I yelled at her in the store.

And a little later, I noticed two of my friends were working.

Wtf, Mom?! I told you I was going to pick out the shoes I wanted to donate later. You never f*cking listen to me. You and your siblings. You all just assume what I want and go on about your assumptions. It's not even just the shoes, mom, it's everything else. I didn't even want the car you gave me. I wanted a used car with a stick shift and without turbo. And you're complaining to me that I'm wasting gas. And going to the Philippines. Oh man, don't even get me started on the Philippines.


*sigh* My light-green-flats. I used to call them my dorothy shoes...

...

My
light
green
flats.

I had so much history with them. They were the first flats I bought. I used to be against flats - and the whole world but who's asking? - but when I decided to get over it, I chose my light green flats first. I still remember going to Payless and they were the first flats that stood out to me. I used to wear them around this guy that I had the biggest crush on. Oh the places I went with them... They were my flats. No one else had them but me. Payless even stopped holding them after a while... I'd wear them to match my whole green attire. Or I'd just wear them to clash. My light... green... flats...

They weren't the most comfortable things. I had to cut the back of the shoe to keep it from scraping the back of my heel (the unspoken pain every girl goes through wearing flats). *sigh*

Geez... I sound like such a girl complaining about my light... green... flats... I almost thought this blog can help me laugh and get over something that was so dear to me... But it's not working. Oh goodness, it's gonna be hard letting this go. I never realized how attached I was to those shoes...

It's okay mom, if I only took better care of them, maybe you would've thought that I still cared about them...

Or you would've just donated them anyway. F*ck.

Of all the shoes, Mom. Today, I was in the garage staring at all the other worn out shoes she could've taken. But she had to take the light green ones. And if there's anything my mom knows about me, it's my favorite color.

And before I even reach the garage, I find half the laundry room shelving shoes I've never seen you wear.

She caught me crying in the garage today and said, "They were already worn out."

They were worn out because I wore them out the most.

Doesn't that mean anything to you?!

Apparently not. You're more concerned about new things. You like to keep your possessions new and clean-looking, so you can give off that high maintenance impression to others.

You have no idea how much those flats meant to me. And you have no idea how I manage my possessions.

You know why most of my belongings look faded, used and worn out? You know why I don't care if I drop my cell phone or why I scribble out my mistakes when I'm writing instead of completely erasing them? Or why I haven't washed my car yet? Do you know why most of my clothes are wrinkled? Or why my books tend to look murdered with annotations? Or why I can give off this improper appearance? Because I don't give a f*ck, Mom. I use my sh*t, Mom. I love the memories each tear, scratch, mark or fade my possessions have. And I'm not ashamed of it. I don't care if I look messy. I don't want to hide or throw away the mistakes, revisions or even the past that all my possessions clearly show. What you try to represent is so idealistic, Mom. No one's perfect, Mom. Stop pretending. Even the upper-class have worn out belongings.

And stop thinking you know me, just listen to me. You'd have so many questions answered. I'm a very honest person, if you haven't noticed already. Secrets elude me.

Accept me for the imperfect and improper daughter that I am.

And listen to me when I say I'll pick out shoes to donate later.

Damnit, Mom.