What Shores

In what world is it acceptable to tell your daughter, explicitly, that there are numerous conditions to your love and support? If this is what parenting looks like: good job. You're doing phenomenally. I'd especially like to congratulate you on your total lack of interest in anything, despite the fact that my life is going exceptionally well. Kudos also on the record-breaking time it takes for you to whip me into a frenzy of annoyance. Five minutes maybe? Maybe less.
Perhaps my graduation isn't the place for you anyway. I suppose it would be incredibly ironic for you to attend considering your counter-productiveness in regards to my successes and general ability to deal with, well, life.
I actually thought that for once, one of you would step up to the plate and pretend to be capable of dependability. But no. This charade has fallen like ill-placed cards. Everyone knows that they are going to topple, that even as they teeter and sway back into position, the situation is hopeless and will forevermore continue to be such. It's a pity that my otherwise consistently low expectations haven't always applied to you. It's a shame, because things would be much less painful that way. If you had failed right from the start. But instead you shifted from an ideal to a cause for worry, and finally you seem to have planted yourself firmly in a state of absence.
Well I'll make you a promise, seeing as I'm the only one left of substance.
I promise to give up on you. I promise to make a point of not reserving you a ticket for graduation; to not extend invitations to concerts and showcases and festivals.
I promise that your pathetic attempts at justifying your choices will haunt you in ten years when you still haven't heard from me, when your looks have faded, your body grown weak and further fragile, your mind robbed of its uncanny ability to remain disillusioned.
Until then...