The Perfect Daughter

     I am not related to the title of this post what so ever. I am anything, but the perfect daughter. According to my mother anyway. I know I screw up sometimes, but it's mostly just the little stuff. Like, I forget to empty the cat litter, or take down the laundry basket. I've never done drugs, smoked, drank, or dyed my hair purple. Sometimes, I wonder, do they even realize what they've got? I'm not trying to say that they are oh so lucky to have me as a daughter; but, what I am saying, is that it could be worse.

      I realize they want the "best" for me, and they just decide certain things, "because they love me", but what I really don't understand, is truly why. They never really give me an answer. It's always the same old, "because you don't need to be hanging out with guys", but why? Am I going to go gang banging, making out in the alley, and graffiti the school? No. Sincerely, the worst I could get myself into, is eat too many pixie sticks, and get a stomach ache. The worst, that I could do, is prank call my ex, and have him find out it was me.. OH NO. Right? It's awful, I know. This is extremely sarcastic, but at the same time, not at all.

      My mom got mad at me today, for wearing a sweater and tights to church. She thought that it looked "innaproriate", and was obviously embaressed. She thought I should've had better judgement when picking out what to wear. This isn't the first time this has happened, this is probably, the fourth or fifth time, at the least. In her mind of course, she is thinking she's just trying to form me into being as conservative as possible, and blahblahblah. She doesn't consider what she's saying, shouting, at me, would affect me personally in the least. I'm sorry, but I am sick of having her judgemental thoughts thrown at me everytime my outfit doesn't fit her mindset of a perfect daughter. Then, she goes around telling her friends about it. Getting their opinion, just so she can convince herself, that she is always right. So really, this just turns into her, and her friends going on and on, harrassing me on my choice of wardrobe. Yup, this, is my life. I am dramatic, histrionic even. Yet, every little thing counts for something, it builds up. Eventually, I won't be able to take it anymore; and eventually, they'll regret everything.