Thanks, Dr. Phil

Dr. Phil makes teenagers lives terrible. This man takes the worst teenagers in America and displays them on national television, points out their flaws, and in turn makes the parents watching at home believe that normal teens do the things advertized. This then makes the parents Nazis in their children's lives, therefore, making their lives terrible.

Parents need to grasp that not all of the things he states apply to every single teenager. For one, we're not all walking hormones with guns. We can act civil. But it's not the teenaged boys whose lives get strained. It's the females. Dr. Phil has a way of addressing problems that point more towards the safety and purity of teenaged girls. One episode, the mother of the "wild" girl referred to the boyfriend as a "gang-banging drug dealer." And when asked to take a drug test, he replied with "do you want me to take a gang-bang test too?" The boy obviously had no respect for anyone. And obviously, this is the prime example of every other boy in America. On top of the terrible teen, the name of that episode was "Hands Off My Teen Daughter."

I guess it's not Dr. Phil that I dislike. It's the misinterpreting parents that adore him. I can understand watching his show to learn a little and feel better about how your kids aren't as bad as those featured. But the parents that watch and take detailed notes on just exactly how their teens think and act based on those troubled kids, that's when the lines of reality TV and actual reality begin to blur.

Dear parents,

Not all teenagers use their cell phones to take nude pictures of themselves and show everyone. (We'll leave that to the politicians.) Most teenagers are not into whoring around and trying out vast arrays of drugs.

Not all boyfriends are going to beat your daughters up. If her boyfriend likes to spend time with her, it doesn't mean he's starting to isolate her from her family. You'll know if he starts to do that, because he'll actually be doing that. Not all boys are going to take advantage of her. Yes, boys are pigs and she'll have to be careful, but you have to hope that your parenting skills work out now that she's on her own. The more you smother her and try to control her, the more she's going to do the opposite.

When she's 17 (and... let's throw an extra 143 days on top of that), her asking if she can go places and do things that don't include entertaining you, it's really more of a courtesy. She's telling you what she's going to be doing in a nice way; she's not actually asking for permission.

Your kids are not as problematic as the ones that are featured.

-Sincerely,

Your [behaved] Teenagers.

222 Days Until I'm 18

Or at least, that's what the time span calculator says. I trust it. As a matter of fact...

Years: 0.61
Months: 7.30
Weeks: 31.72
Days: 222
Hours: 5329.00
Minutes: 319,740.00
Seconds: 19,184,400.00

All until I'm 18.

I just thought that the "222" was significant. The number 2 has been my assigned lucky number since birth [February second, or 2/2, as 2:02 am].

Freaky? A bit. I'm okay with it though. It's kinda cool to have something unique about your birthday.

Gosh. 222 days. Can't. Wait. In a sense, yes, I can wait. I'm not necessarily ready to give up my high school career and grow up so fast. I'm not really ready to be close to graduation, and in turn, be close to walking out the door and being a forgotten student at The High School. However, being an adult will be very much appreciated. I know, I know, "you kids want to grow up, blah blah blah." It's not that I want to grow up. I just want to escape. Being 18 will give me the unconditional lift I need to feel good. I'll be able to literally walk out the door, and not be breaking rules. I'll be able to get a job and support myself. I'll be able to be the person I want to be, 100% of the time, and not the person Sparta wants me to be, or thinks I am. 17 years and 143 days into an act. It's a mandatory act. It helps me survive the household.

One would think that being 17 years and 143 days old, that person would be allowed to express themselves without being beaten with words and judgments. Being confined in a house for 17 years and 143 days is most certainly a jail sentence.

Being afraid of the world is a terrible way to live. Sparta wouldn't open the windows all day last Halloween. "They'll be able to look into the windows and see us. That's why."

"Mom... it's noon...."

"You don't get it, Breanna. You think you're so smart. Satan is watching everything you do. He's waiting. You have to learn to be careful out there. MAYBE YOU SHOULD LISTEN TO ME ONCE AND A WHILE. I'M NOT STUPID. LORD, YOU'RE AS NUMB AS A BOOT."

Numb as a boot. My favorite Sparta quote. I've been hearing it since I was little. Mainly used for when I'd frustrate her with my undying stupidity, I've grown to hate the expression. And boots.


I miss The Guy. It's been well over a week.

I guess it seems a little... meh. Whiny. I feel I'm whiny. That's what this blog has turned into. My personal whine site.

Anyway. The whole root of my anger towards being an inmate and living with Warren Sparta is quite possibly that in itself; not seeing The Guy. It's frustrating.

I feel best when I'm around him. He doesn't make me feel insignificant, or belittle me. I'm adored.

Then I go home and feel like shit. For days. I ask to see him, she says no.

The thing I'm worried about most is that he'll get tired of waiting. Lots of girls want him. Lots. Like, infinite multitudes. I'm not worried he's going to find enjoyment in other girls in my absence; I think he kinda respects the relationship too much, on top of just being uninterested in others. But waiting. So much waiting. I knew this summer was going to be hard. It's one of the worst times to start a relationship [for me], right before summer vacation. I see no one. Absence makes the heart grow fonder? Sometimes. But most of the time it just saws through your body. It makes you tense and cry and miss them. It makes you sick and scream. After a while, in most cases, it makes you forget why you liked them. It detaches you from them. You begin to forget what it feels like with their arms around you, or what their hair smells like. No one can tend the fire, and it dies. Then it's just two strangers sitting on a train, on opposite ends.

I don't want that to happen to us.

I still remember all the little things. [For god sakes. It's only been a week.] But still. I'm in it for the long haul. Little breaks like this without him won't make me forget him. And I'm lucky that he's not average. Average guys do forget in a week.

We got together on May 22nd.

22.

My number, perhaps?

We can see what we want in coincidences.

I want to see that as a little sign that it's all going to be okay. That this is real and right.

Twenty-two.

Senior.

So now I'm old. A senior? Great.

I've been waiting for this time forever. To be a senior is to have power and importance. I don't feel powerful or important at all. In fact, I feel a lack of connection to the rest of the school. There were three classes ahead of ours freshman year. We got to know the sophomore and junior class well and looked up to them, not just as inspiration but also physically. We watched as the seniors we barely got to know walk down the center of the gym during our first time witnessing the Senior Assembly. We awed at their gowns. We applauded at their successes. And we ached to be them.

The next year, we watched as about four of our oldest friends walked down that same path. We still wanted to be them, but we knew we were going to miss them. And we did, but there was only a handful to miss.

This year. We sat in the bleachers. We watched as most of our friends sisters and brothers walked down the path of no return. We sat there are watched as their memories started to fade into future events that didn't include us. We watched as they accepted their last awards at The Town Name's High School. We didn't want to be them then. We cried for the loss of our classes, lunches, and practices together. We wept. We all wept. No longer did we want to be them. We wanted to go back to being a naive freshman who thought that four years was actually a long time. We, as a class, mourned the loss of the lives we had. We're no longer looking forward to stare at the backs of the older kids. WE are the older kids. We are the backs that people look at. And sooner rather than later, we will be the seniors that make juniors cry. 

I only cried for twenty minues during the SATs.

SAT scores have been revealed. I've got to say, I'm not completely bummed. I got above a 460 in everything so this means I don't have to take most of my finals.

As a matter of fact...

490- Reading
480-Mathematics
550- Writing

I'm a little disappointed because I really wanted to get over a 620 in one of the Englishes, I would be free of Mr. English Teacher's English Final. But, I did not. Now I have to brush up on everything and do well on it. But, due to incentives from all the teachers, I will not have to do a chemistry, math, or history final. All I'll have is pottery, ASL, and English. Not bad for end of the year testing. I'm super excited over the writing score; I kinda kicked the essay's butt. I don't think that I can go into detail about it online (can I?) but basically I only referenced to one book as one, really specific supporting detail over the topic. I got a score of 4 from both readers. I was expecting something less because I spent the beginning ten minutes trying to find my thoughts, and literally erased and re-started the essay about four times. It wasn't a "4" worthy to me. Granted I'd like a 6. That would be nice.

I would re-take the SATs next year, but then I'd be re-taking them next year.