a pleasant letter.

Dear Grandmother,

Here's a blog just for you, then.
If you can FREAKING see this, then give me a call, grandmother. Because I think you're utterly ridiculous.

Yes, I'll say it: I THINK YOU'RE RIDICULOUS. How old am I, seriously? Last time I checked my birthday is in approximately six or seven month. And how old will I be? That's right, eighteen. The proper age of so-called adulthood and full of responsibilities. Obviously they should have raised that bar because I'm not even sure how old you are and you're acting very immature.

I imagine you're going to tell my father what a horrible person I am for posting this to you, and how terrible it is that I'd address you in such a manner. But if this is how you're going to spy on me for the remainder of my life, I'd better get it out here.

I'm sick of it. I realize that perhaps what you're doing is "looking out for my best interested" or for my well-being, and I realize that you want the best for me, but breathing down my back is not my idea of doing so. I don't have your number in my new phone, therefore I can't call you. But I don't see you taking too much of your precious time to call me either.

I understand and have for a long while that my beloved cousin (my father's sister's daughter; might as well look out for her privacy, too) is your favorite. And honestly, I wouldn't care. I have to say I dislike you. I'm sorry, but you haven't exactly been there for me. It feels like you more or less didn't care. I love you, but I don't like you or your methods of being a grandparent.

Go ahead, tell father about it. I really don't care anymore. He'll only really be able to do much about it for so long. I'll show him this, and he might be angry with me. I don't care. It's called a blog, my dear grandmother, and it's freedom of speech. It's freedom of expression. It's my life and I definitely intend to live it as I please, not how you govern it.

Love you,
Alyssa.