I’ve been spending all day thinking about what keeps me going. At this point, it’s a matter of pride.
The old bat won’t win this. Not this time. She’s been controlling my life from day one and I won’t stand for it. When I was a child, she was stifling my creativity because she didn’t understand it and wrote it all off as anomalous behavior. Draw one Hitler asteroid falling on star-chested dinosaurs and suddenly you’re a little monster. And then there was the science project about how squirrells and pigeons can be used as a biofuel. Dad said I was ahead of my time, but that was before he left us for that bimbo who worked in Forensics.
Now I’m practically a grown woman and Mom is still trying to control me, deciding who my friends are and should be. It’s a crafty war game we play, though I know I’m weaker than her from a social standpoint. I’ve been going to the library, reading up on warrior philosophy, guerrilla tactics, and passive resistance. My greatest flaw, I think, has been underestimating my enemy. Though my mom is not as intelligent as I am, she far surpasses me in experience at being an authoritarian.
Most recently, I have been fascinated with the story of Che Guevara’s motorcycle trip and how he assisted the leper colony in Peru. The samurai say to love yourself and all others, which hastens the idea that they are only killing out of a sense of duty and honor. Emotions will come to boil at the point where Mom and I square off, but I will have the upper hand by staying calm at the start, of this I’m sure.
I’ve joined the Philosophy Club at school to find like-minded troops for my revolution. War games are not won through one person’s will alone. I need followers and compatriots to enact my plans. Mother won’t know what happened to the little monster doodling crayon drawings of dinosaur Holocausts. Suddenly, her little monster has all grown up. War is the essence of growth, Mother, so thank you for raising me to be this way. Let the games begin.