holland blvd. // c.h.

one- hypocrites

one- hypocrites

the gravel beneath my feet crunched as i took long strides on my familiar way back home from hell, oops i mean school, wait no, hell is a good word to call yellowstone academy.

i pull at the ugly navy tie, that was part of the hideous uniform, that i was forced to wear everyday since grade school, when we moved here from my beautiful home of austrailia, because of my fathers raise, so it wasn't choking me.

in my opinion, ojai isn't all bad, it's just austrailia will always be my one and only home, at least where i feel at home anyways.

but father taking the raise has even more cons than just moving to a whole different continent. it meant that his business was taking off and that only meant that i never saw him.

and of course, us being as wealthy as we are, my mother has to keep up, with the same amount of title and is a world-wide famous fashion designer and model.

you may be saying how i live the life, but that my friend you'd be so wrong, so so so dearly, truly wrong.

i may have everything i will ever need in material, but that will never amount to what i wish to have; a loving relationship with my parents.

i want the kind of family that i can come home to with a problem and talk to them and they give me advice, so i don't have to be stressed and clueless.

i want a family where my mother would wake me up for school, and i'd come down stairs to find her having set out a nice hot breakfast for us, and my father to be reading the morning paper, and for him to call me kido again.

he doesn't do that much anymore, but the thing is being eighteen, you aren't much of a kido anymore, now are you?

my mother doesn't wake me up, bonnie does, my housekeeper. and my mother doesn't have a breakfast for me to come down stairs to.

yes, a wide variety of pop-tarts and toaster strudels, but no bacon or eggs. not even a pancake.

and my father isn't there reading the morning paper, because he isn't there at all, to busy with his work.

and even if he was home, he would not dare be in the kitchen spending any quality time with his only son, oh no.

you'd find him in his office, hunched over his desk, fingers typing in a maniac like speed.

but when my moms home, she does spend time with me, yeah, if you count insulting every choice i ever made or am thinking about making, then yeah, spot one. go ahead, pat yourself on the back.

but i try to keep them happy, do the things they want, with a smile that is all to fake

so to all of you hypocrites out there, who believe i have it all, i just want to tell you one thing, you have no idea of what you are saying.

i let out a exasperated huff as i kick a pebble, that was along out long drive way. yes, i am walking home, even though i have a car, three to be exact.

my parents aren't home, so they wouldn't know anyways. they preferred me to ride in the car with my driver, but i insisted that i can drive myself.

but when they aren't here, i like walking, it makes me feel somewhat like a normal teenage boy. so cliché of me, huh?

i punch in the number at the gate that had to big cursive h's over the black metal bars on it and it opened.

"welcome home, mr. calum." i heard fredrick our gate attended call through.

i pressed the button "thank you, fredrick."

i walked through the gate with my bag, or as my mother calls it, my satchel and started for the door.