I’m just… I’m so fucking tired of cooking dinner every night. I have been cooking dinner every weeknight since I was TWELVE. TWELVE. My dad had this mandatory second shift and suddenly it was just… me. Me and three little kids who were always hungry and always fighting and always asking for more. And I’d stand on a chair to reach the stove and try not to burn anything while my little sister screamed about whatever stupid show was on and my brothers ran laps around the living room like maniacs. I swear to god I still smell burnt toast sometimes even when there’s no toast. That’s probably fucked up, right? And it wasn’t just dinner. It was homework, it was making sure everyone actually showered, it was making sure they ate their damn vegetables instead of just picking them out. It was being the grown-up when I was barely even a kid myself. My dad would come home and just be like, "Everything okay?" and I'd be like, "Yeah, dad, everything's fine," because what else was I supposed to say? That I was exhausted? That I wanted to throw the damn pasta at the wall? That I just wanted someone to make ME dinner for once? He worked so hard, I couldn’t just dump all that on him. But now I’m here, in my own apartment, supposed to be living my best life or whatever, and the minute I walk into a grocery store I just feel this… dread. This heavy, crushing weight. Like I’m still walking down the aisle at twelve years old, trying to figure out what the hell I’m going to make for four other people with like, ten bucks. I just want to order pizza without feeling guilty, you know? Without feeling like I’m failing someone. I just want to eat ramen for dinner every night and not feel like I’m letting anyone down. Fuck that. I’m just so sick of it.