Don't care.

I vowed never to blog when I'm upset because it'll all end in tears. But hey ho. Who gives a damn. Nobody even reads this anyway.

Sometimes I don't know why I bother. I get home from a seven hour day of learning two brand new dances, some songs, and acting. I'm expected to cook my brothers tea and I can't even cook anything unless it's ready made like fish that goes in the oven. I can do peas and pasta and broccoli but that's about it. And when I find that the menu is a load of crap that I don't know how to cook, what am I supposed to do?

So I called my mum asking what I should do. Only she's in the airport on the way to Boston so she can't do much. I was receiving instructions on making a sauce for the pasta on the list - because the boys won't just eat the damned plain tomato and basil sauce - but Toby decided to yell at me from another room, telling me some absolute rubbish about how he'd cook potato smilies, peas and fish fingers. But we have no potatoes or peas. So I shouted back and Mummy got a load of shouting down the phone so she just hung up.

Then when she finally picked up again, Daddy was walking through the door so I said it was okay, he'd be able to do it. And then he got really really stressy about it. "What's the problem now? Can't you kids do anything without arguing?! Why can't you just get on!?" So then when I asked him to cook something because there was nothing I could do at all he got so angry and started yelling at me that I was lazy. And what the hell? Because I'm only fifteen, I don't have kids to look after and I don't know how to cook. But still I'm expected to do it at least twice, if not three times, per week. While he drives home from a job on the other side of London. This the father who says he only takes jobs close enough to home.

So now I'm in trouble for "talking to him rudely" which is something I didn't do, I was just close to tears because I was getting yelled at by Toby and could do nothing and hate the pressure I'm constantly being put under. I'm not some kid whose grown up cooking. It's just something that's been thrust upon me in the past month or so and I just can't do it. Yuck. It would be okay if some nights I cooked and had a parent supervising me so I can get used to it. But whenever I'm supervised, I'm given a garbled load of instructions that I "follow wrong" even though they make no sense. And I end up being moved out of the cooking area and somebody taking over. Why can't my parents be patient or anything?

Yuck I feel awful. I'm getting shouted at for being told to do something that's beyond me. It's NOT MY FAULT. Why should I even care about making dinner? It's not like I'm ever hungry in the evenings anyway.
Sorry for all that ranting. I need it out of my system. I'll probably post something nicer later.
xxxxxx