Friday, Oct. 3

Friday, Oct. 3

  

Dear diary,

  

My mom always told me I would make a good actress.

  Though there were times when I felt like she didn’t mean it as a compliment.  Of course, what else could I expect from her? She is the same woman, mind you, who assumes that every time I give as much as one glance toward a boy it means that I want to instantly make out or, heaven forbid, have sex with him. I guess it was how she was raised. Grandma Hartley always did seem a hell lot worse than mom, and that’s saying something.  Grandma hated anything that gave a ‘joyous’ or ‘happy’ vibe, there was one Christmas that she spent with us, I watched as she suppressed a  fit at the grand sight of twinkling red, green, blue and white, at the sight of singing and laughing children. . . There were rare occasions when I just felt sorry for the old lady. But more occasions when I hated her like hell. She used to be bearable; I used to hide my frustrations behind a grin.

  We both used to be such good actresses.