Why Is Someone Important To Me

Parties aren't all they're cracked up to be, especially when you're the eye candy.

My parents couldn't be famous so they lived their dreams out through their kids. My father was known for creating publicly stunts at Parla pictures. He spent his days telling the world how awful or amazing a celebrity was. Sort of like the health inspector at a movie theater.

Before she met my father, my mother was a prissy wanna be actor from some hick town we never even dared to visit. My father had connections and while my mother was desperate she took any opportunity she could to become a star.

I live in a Hollywood, where the sun shines, oranges grow, and dreams come true. In the movies.

Have you ever heard of someone running away from Cali? In that

aspect I'm not the first. Not many people stay here long. They eventually get butthurt and go back to their rinky dink town in bum fuck Egypt. 

I'm leaving because this cushy life style makes me wish someone who gag me with a spoon. My life reminds me of a kitty poster that says some corny inspirational quote like: Everyone needs a cup of cute a day!

Yeah that makes me want to throw up.

My grandmother is a very admirable woman with unique taste and amazing creativity.

She's a emotional teen stuck in a old ladies body.

"It's your summer, do what you want." My mother halfhearted muttered.

At the point I didn't even have to ponder the thought. Spending a whole summer with grandma was like a four year old at Disney land. Well used to be anyway.

I haven't been their since I was seven and since then I have grown taller, smarter, and bitchier. I'm much different but grandmothers attitude has stuck with age.

I set the last piece of clothing in my leopard print suit case my mother insisted I use. If it was my choice I would have used a garbage

bag.

I cringe as I smell nail polish wafer through the air.

I have the worst room in the whole house and my snot nosed sisters decides to do everything by the vent. If she smoked weed I would be the first to know.

My room is bland, a couple of paintings from grade 6 and up cling to the wall. If you lifted them up you would see a ring of dust. I don't admire them but if they weren't there my room would be drab. Nothing sticks out, my walls are a faded blue, my sheets are white and my furniture looks antique but in reality they're old and unused. Books pile up on the floor, they have all been read. You could flip to a page and ask me questions and from memory I could tell you every word on the page.

A soft knock brings me back from space, "Come in," I bellow from my bed.

In steps my mother, her blonde hair tied up in a neat bun. Her makeup heavy and her clothes conservative. "Are you packed?"

I nod without responding, "You should really pick up those books." She lectures sitting in the oak chair centered by the bookshelf across from me.

"If I do the room will look unlived in."

"Won't smell like it, Jesus what is that smell?"

I shrug not dignifying that with a response. "I just thought I'd tell you granny will be here

shortly."

I nod once more waiting for her to leave. She gets the hint and stands up sighing, "If you keep pushing my away I won't know what to do," she mutters, like she is talking to herself.

I don't belong here, that's why I push her away. It shouldn't matter the golden child is in the next room and unlike me they can mold her into anything they want.

Excitement surges through me as wait for my grandmother. We could drink lemonade and sit on her porch or paint. I felt like I was waiting in line at a amusement park, eat minutes take me closer to where I want to go.