On teenage individuality.

My family is one in which any individuality on my part is quickly sought out and destroyed. I’m not allowed to wear the fucking nail polish colors my mom dislikes, let alone clothing. And it’s not as though I want to dress like a slut or anything. Not even Goth outfits. It’s just the littlest things. How do I convince her that making me into a carbon copy of herself is not the way to go? I really hate that I’m basically not recognized as a person by her.

The color of your nail polish? Fuck you. Pay the rent next month, bitch.

You’re an American teenager living in a walled garden of privilege, and until there’s a utility bill somewhere with your name on it, I suggest you shut the hell up and be grateful.

Learn how to get sneaky if you must, but shit, if you can’t figure out how to rebel against the color of your own goddamn manicure, then you don’t deserve any personal expression.

Not that it matters. The individuality you so desperately want to flaunt is nothing more than an industrial byproduct of a cynical marketing machine strip mining our celebrity obsessed culture. These days, even teenage rebellion is just a pre-packaged lesson in consumerism.

You’re worried about becoming a carbon copy of your mom when you should be worried about becoming a carbon copy of whatever pathetic trend she won’t let you fuck up your hair with.

Listen, I know it’s your job to act like a shallow, self-absorbed little brat right now. Still, I’m not your mother. I don’t have to put up with your whining for one fucking second. If you want to be recognized as a person in this world, earn it.

Adulthood is right around the corner.

Figure it out, kid.


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