I hate money. We’ve always been tight on money. I don’t want to be rich and I don’t want to be right on cash. I want enough to live comfortably, but lacking enough to have to save and work and wait for something special I really want or absolutely need.
We can’t spend money. So we don’t buy drinks outside.
There was no peace from Daddy’s Mummy because we had not enough money for her. She hates me (right?) I know it. Lying hypocrite. I (think I) hate her.
Daddy spends a lot on your tuition. We could renovate the house two times over and get the windows fixed before they fall off and we get fined. Guilt.
Daddy doesn’t sleep because he needs to earn money for your tuition. I must work harder for daddy, I’m sorry.
Mummy always buys clothes but only for me. I want to spend on her when I grow up.
My parents work hard for me. I want to be rich enough so they can go on holidays to any country when they’re older. I hope they never die. I need to pamper my daddy and mummy. I need to buy my daddy a dog and all kinds of shoes.
I want to buy my daddy a new bed.
I have a scholarship. You study for yourself, don’t kid me. No daddy, I learn because I love. I study only for you.
Mummy has to quit her job in August. I still don’t want recovery. We have no money for therapy (that I don’t want) forever. Mummy’s voice breaks.
I deserve nothing. I want to be small again — be a child.
I don’t want to go to the boy’s. I want to get lost.
If I jump from here maybe I’ll hit my head hard enough to die. It’s not high enough. But I like to think that I may die.
I wonder what will happen if one day I’m too lost in the mind and I die. I wonder about the lost, wondering minds of the people I leave behind.
I will probably still go to the boy regardless, like clockwork and habit. Some part of me that is still me loves him too much, misses him dearly and wants him right now.