Somtimes I don't understand my parents. They think it is their mission to bring me into this life and give me every thing they wanted when they were a child and not let me develope naturally into a person. Sometimes I think that the act of having children is selfish, to establish an extension of self. Remote tentacles we have become sometimes. I suppose this sounds like complaining about my parents in a childish manner, but the fact remains that pain grows and blooms while they smile and get their way. The juxtaposition of these opposing ideas drives people to do things both beautiful and ugly I suppose, depending on how well developed a person's empathy has become. Being the stock character never really appealed to me. I'm going to shine beyond the emotional retardation and fear of people who can't just let go of their petty prejudices. If they could only feel the warm liberation of letting go...pitiful. I suppose this is anger or sorrow or arrogance, but the same could be said of the source of the problem. I love them them despite what they do. Ah well. это жизнь! C'est la vie! Daß ist leben! Esta Vita!