every time I talk to my son I feel broken. I don't understand the fucking appeal of being high. it's so wasteful; you could be doing so much more. so you don't have money. READ. You can't stand being at home? Walk. lots. go t grandmas. oh wait; you fucked that up, with your cocky stupid mouth talking all that shit, blind to the facts kicking you in the head. right.

you're not getting anywhere high. your little bullshit well if I can't train then I have nothing and so since I have nothing I get high - omg how fucking stupid is that? I didn't raise a fucking drug addict - but your dad did, and look where he's at. a loser. you can ask me for money and know that somehow I'll get it to you; but you can't depend on your dad. yet you follow his footsteps, listen to his shit, and do exactly what he does, spout off about shit you know nothing about.

I hate talking to him. I feel depressed and I can't think straight. I cry all night worried about my son, who doesn't fucking worry about me or what his actions do to me.

Oh my daughters can survive. They are practically carbon copies of me, complete with indominable wills and crazy ass drive. They can do anything. Why can't my son????