nefelibata (n.) | ✔️

one.

Present, August 26th, 2018.

My mother was beginning to pretend that she cared about the makeup I did and the outfits I wore. With school starting back up in a week she practically begged me to go clothes shopping with her. Most daughters would enjoy this, too bad my mother always tries to throw me into some neon pink dress from Hollister or some shit.

"I don't know why you enjoy wearing all black, Lena. You let all the clothes grandmother bought you go to waste." I hide my annoyance at the mention of my grandmother and those hideous clothes she bought me. I didn't know that being a high school girl meant looking like a Disney princess, but I guess to her it did.

"No offense mother, but those clothes made me want to die in every country, twice." I exaggerate for an effect which only makes my mother's annoyance escalate. "I've worn all black since sophomore year and it's not changing now. Anyway, it's a statement." I've explained this to my mother every day of my life for nearly 4 years now. I've explained it to everyone, but they're all so shallow and small minded that it goes over their head and into the gutter.

"Could you at least lose the fishnets this year? They make you look like a hooker." I would be shocked at that comment except for the fact that it isn't surprising in the least.

"Then a hooker I shall be," I asserted, making my enjoyment of her frustration known. "Not quite sure why it bothers you so much though if I'm honest."

"Because you're a beautiful girl and you look like a demon with all of that black stuff around your eyes and re-dying your brunette hair into dark black." She lists, making my eyes roll into the back of my head.

"Maybe I just like the color black?" I look down at my mother, laughing at the scowl she gives me as we continue walking through the store. She stopped to look at a couple of blouses she saw that were actually disgusting, but I didn't have the heart to tell her.

"You can like the color black all you want, but being goth just isn't how I wanted you to end up." She nags, and my head flings back letting out a deep sigh.

"I choose not to label myself, mother." I utter but she decides to ignore this and continues holding up another ugly blouse.

Mall trips with my mother consist of her complaining about my life choices, as we've seen, arguing with me about our differences in opinions and bitching about my father. Fun.

I love my mother, I do, but she's often inconsiderate and rude. My father, on the other hand, is calm and collected. He respects my dreams and the things that I want to accomplish. I think I remind him of his younger self in a way. I have no clue how he married my mother though; they're complete opposites.

My parents remind me of a cliche high school relationship. My mother, the socialite of her generation, was kind of like the Brooklyn of mine. Maybe that's why she always asks about her. My dad was different. He was creative and artistically inclined. Like me, he wanted to make things that people thought about deeply. Not just thinking quickly about it and moving on, but looking long and hard and thinking about the meaning. Then my mother got pregnant and being a good father became his number one goal.

We paint together sometimes; he'll read my work and give me notes, sometimes he'll even attempt to help me with my violin, even though he doesn't know the first thing about it. I have a lot of appreciation towards him. I'm thankful I get both sides of the spectrum.

When I started wearing darker clothes and changing my makeup and hair, my Mom began to freak out saying that I looked like a bad kid. My Dad took the time to talk to me and ask me what caused the sudden change in appearance.

"We should get going soon." She says, holding a dress up to my body to estimate if it would fit me. "I told your Dad we'd pick up some pizza on the way home." She decides on her own that she'll buy the navy blue dress for me and wraps it around her arm. I'm guessing she didn't ask if I liked it because she knew I'd say no.