Sarcasm. I.

The angry Arizona sun blazes down at me as I gaze almost disconnectedly up at the light blue, almost white, Phoenix sky. It manages to make me feel as if it is scrutinizing all the choices I have ever made in my life and every choice I will make in the future, before it finally comes to it’s conclusion of utter disapproval.

Disapproval.

Nothing new there.

It seemed that was everyone’s opinion of me here:

Disapproving of my clothes.

Disapproving of my taste in music.

Disapproving of who I spend my time, which is pretty much only me, myself and I.

Just, disapproving.

Too bad for them, they could be doing something seriously more productive with their time, instead of just glaring or pointing at me. Or both.

It doesn’t even bother me anyway.

I soon feel small beads of sweat starting to form on my forehead, a consequence of simply stepping outside the front door and into the world... and away from the AC.

So, Mother, to answer your question, I’d say this is why I spend all my time ‘cooped up in my room’.

I mentally sass, seeing as at this moment in time, she is on the other side of the cul-de-sac, fussing over my younger twin sister, very much too far away from me to say it to her face.

And I certainly am not about to waste my precious time walking over to her in this unforgiving heat.

Unforgiving.

A word people seem to just love using to describe me. But it isn’t my fault some people simply don’t deserve my forgiveness. That is a burden to carry on their own shoulders. I mean, it’s not like I’m gonna carry it on mine.

I believe people tend to think I do though.

At least, that’s the only logical explanation I can come up with as to why they continuously tell me to forgive others to ‘set myself free’.

It’s as they really believe I’m holding some sort of huge, time-consuming grudge that’s weighing me down, or, even better, is somehow the reason I ‘am the way I am’. Something my previous therapist (that Mother forced me to see) had the audacity to accuse.

I ‘am the way I am’ because I am who I am.

And, I mean, please, people, I’ve got far more important things to occupy my mind with then stuck up privileged jerks who don’t even care what they did, let alone care about earning my forgiveness for it, and that certainly isn’t burdening me. It’s not even on my mind, really.

But it is interesting they never ask themselves why they are so bothered by my existence.

Seems to me they are the ones who need therapy. It’s not my fault I’m too evolved for the people here.

I was abruptly snapped out of my reverie as a sudden loud, long, car toot sounds to my left, leaving my ears buzzing slightly.

Well there goes my moderately-good mood, I think as irritation suddenly flows through my veins full force.

My dark espresso-coloured locks splay across my face as I whip my head to the location of the sound, immediately recognising my step-father, Phil, a 28 year old minor league baseball player or something, as the imbecile to cause the obnoxious blare, that was soon after replaced by another kind of obnoxious blare; his voice.

“girls! hurry it up! I love ya but we got to get this show on the road if we want to make the flight on time” he hollars to my mother and sister, certainly not me.

No, god forbid he notices that Mother actually has two daughters.

I briefly snap back into my previous reverie, before I once again direct my attention to him.

However, as soon as I do, I regret it, as what I see is him basically hanging out of the drivers side of our car, not helping with any bags, and completely unaware of the slight tilt he was creating - and how he now had everyone's attention, for a few very long moments, before it was once again directed back to their various outdoor activities.

Well buddy, you just keep proving my point right; you’re too young for my Mother.

A point that I profusely tried to get across before the wedding, might I add, but I guess seeing as he is still around, maybe he is the perfect fit for her after all.

Perhaps I finally found what they have in common; Immaturity and a false sense of youth.

With a huff and roll of my eyes, I only struggle slightly with my cheap, oversized suitcase, (that Mother insisted on buying for my apparently excessive amount of belongings), as I slowly wander over to our car in my 1920 style, black t-strap heels, my black skinny jeans and my tight, black, three quarter corset tank top, that, by now, are all soaked through with sweat and are clinging uncomfortably tighter to my alabaster skin.

Opening the boot, I heave the tacky dark blue case up into our car, making it sway and wobble slightly, probably not the best sign, but since our mother is completely in love with the old piece of light blue junk, buying a new one is simply not an option.

Upon hearing a rattle rattle thud ping doink sound from behind me, I quickly step out of the way of the danger magnet that is my twin sister, as she literally trips over her own feet, making her also large and cheap suitcase tumble in ungracefully, and untidily, next to mine, causing me to roll my eyes for the second - and definitely not last - time today, as I make my way to my side of the car while Mother comes to her rescue.

My current level of irritation doubles ten fold as the door sticks, for what feels like a very long while, due to the blistering heat and strong sun rays. One of the very many reasons I hate Phoenix.

Eventually it flings open with a particularly strong tug from yours truly, allowing me to uncomfortably plop myself down in my dirty old seat and get off my aching feet.

My sister awkwardly tumbles into her own seat beside me shortly after I hear our Mother click the boot shut, soon following my sister’s example as she also tumbles into her seat up front, laughing about it like a school girl as an also laughing Phil steadies her, and soon enough, the car is sputtering to a start, and we are on our way to the airport.

Suddenly, Mother’s ‘cool’ music roars loudly through the car speakers, the volume far too high already, but all she does is turn it up louder, creating a nice static clinking background sound, and a very nice ringing in my ears, as they both bellow and shriek along to the tedious song.

Already getting sick of the awful shouting they called singing, I quickly rummage through by black leather backpack that was placed down beside me - used as a dividing tool between me and Bella - soon emerging victorious as I pull my mp3 player and headphones from the mess inside.

I quickly place them on my head and turn on my own music, cranking up the volume until I am able to happily drown out the ruckus coming from the front seat.

Sinking into my chair, I rest my temple area on the window while I kill time by mindlessly looking out, watching as we pass miles and miles of boring houses, sandy desert, and various cacti on our way, only spearing one short glace toward my sister to see she was doing the exact same thing.