Mood Whiplash

I was having a great birthday really.

I napped intermittently through the day.

I had my daily fix of Lulz in #devart. I managed to get my parents and my brother to go to the movies with me.

I bought two books.

Then my aunt shows up with cake.

No problem. I hate cake but I'll eat it. Facetious you know.

Then they decide to hang out in my room.

What?
Ahem, let me reiterate.

What?
Why the fuck do you want to hang out in my room?
It's not "I lost a pair of leggings." or "Have you seen my pants." or maybe. "Did you take your cousin's Transformers toy?"

It's "Oh... wanna have fun here."

For starters. There is nothing that two grown women and a kid of two and a half years old would consider fun in my room. Except the top hat but that's falling apart.

What I have is stacks and stacks of mindless incessant ramblings with the people that live in my head.

I. Put. Those. Down. On. Paper.

And I'd really appreciate it if you wouldn't lounge around on my fucking bed, (coughwhereIahemcough) inches away from my precious monologues which when read, make me look like a fucking lunatic.

"You have something to hide don't you? That's why you don't want us in here."

Something to hide? Why certainly. I've a total of three things to hide in my room.

3. Porn. (I'm a repressed teenager.)
2. My inner monologues. (dark, testy and annoying.)
1. Tampons. (Cause my family is of the belief that I will die of cervical cancer when I use these.)

There you have it.

Now get out of my fucking room. I want to sleep.