bending_sickle | Sweater, n.: garment worn by child when its mother is feeling chilly.*

I should be reading about the geography of the Netherlands, or the history of Leiden, or learning how to say "twenty-three" in Dutch.

At the very least I should be showered and fed.

Instead, I'm lying on the couch, in my day-pj's - with tights underneath, because I wanted, just once to feel better about my thighs. I'm also seething.

The reason being that mom skyped me, asking if I was busy. I wasn't, really, just doing random grammer exercises, so I skype-called her. Recently she's bought a leather jacket, and asked if I'd be interested, as it's a tad small for her. I thought, sure, we can switch. But it turns out she thinks the jacket's not really all that good (so it wouldn't be quite a fair switch, as I'd be out one good leather jacket and up one random jacket, which I have plenty of). It also turns out she bought it specifically for me.

Fuck it. I don't want another leather jacket. I never even liked the one we bought - never, not even in the shop - because it's too big, got shoulder pads (!) that are too wide. I'm sick and tired of mom buying me clothes, too. Often, she'll buy herself stuff and then think, y'know, this'll look better on you. And she'll still compain about never buying herself anything.

I'm sick of her giving me sweaters and socks (and tights and makeup) or Christmas and birthdays. I don't like tights, and I don't wear makeup (well, now I do, but only at my mother's insistence and oh gods why does she still have the power to make me do things?).

And to quote Love Actually: "I don't want something I need, I want something I want." Especially when I've got plenty of clothes, and we're miserably short of cash ("What do you think we are, a money tree?" "Money doesn't cost you anything, does it?"). Just once, I'd like something I want for my birthday. Or Christmass. I'd rather measly $3 on PayPal, so's I could read Digger than a sweater. And, look! cheaper!
I'd rather a gift that showed the person knew what I liked, knew what I cherished, was interested in, coveted, rather than shit everyone gets around to buying. I have barely a handful of clothes articles I picked, according to my budding tastes. And then I have like six beige shirts. What the fuck do I want with six beige shirts? (What am I, a fucking Jedi?!?) A lot of clothes, zip variety?

And she still passes judgement on what I wear. Apparently it's a horribel faux pas that I'm wearing my fleece thingie under my leather jacket. E-gads! Oh no! The horror! I'm supposed to wear the fleece outside! Yes, so that the bitting winds of the North Sea and freeze me, brilliant. I'll fucking wear what keeps me warm, and I don't look like a fool, and so what if I did anyway. (And I had to fucking justify myself to her, for wearing what I did.)

So yeah. So instead of any crap I should be doing, I'm going to fucking curse my way through the rest of this goddamned post.

...which, yeah. Seems kinda done. I'll save my Heroes squee for a new post, 'cause I'm wierd like that.

Let me clean out my bookmarks a bit. There's random stuff, Who stuff, Life on Mars stuff, crack, Neil... Something for everyone.

ETA: Posted Chapter 3 of Degrees of Freedom on