how it really is and how it really was:

my father is a good man. he has a kind heart and loves his family dearly. we're the only ones he has, really. when i see him sick now, cranky and snapping at us for strange reasons, all i do is worry that the day he goes might be sooner than i want it to be. i still have to be so many things so he can see me before he dies, and be proud

my mother is an artist and has the spirit of a seventeen year old girl inside of her. she was trapped by unfortunate situations in life, but i don't think she really doubts any of it. we're fabulously similar, and every so often i'll spill everything about my life to her.

neither of my parents really care about material possessions at all. they care about their children growing up strong and healthy and successful, to do everything they were uncapable of doing, to live their lives vicariously through people who so closely resemble themselves

and i love them. so i'm going to try very hard to make them proud.

so many vices though. too many. and i really want to drop them all because not only are they ruining my life,
they're ruining the chances of everything good that could happen