I've worked 60 hours this week alone, and I'm working atleast 7 hours tonight. Don't you dare tell me that I need to work less, Mom. I'm not even sad anymore, because I don't have to be around you. You're killing me. You're the one who said I have to work 40 hours a week or else.... And suddenly I'm every parent's dream because I am paying my way through everything right now and you say that it's not acceptable. When will I be good enough for you, Mom? Will I ever be?

And I'm up in my room, about to change into my work uniform so I can go and slave away for another handful of hours just to fail at gaining your approval, and crying.

I hate you.... You'll never truly love me either.