Hard days made me. Hard nights shaped me. I don't know; they somehow saved me.

I didn't have time to finish the assignment. I forgot. Fido ate my homework. My flash drive couldn't open my finished paper. My locker wouldn't open! My brother colored all over the worksheet. I brought my French book home, instead. It was stolen by the homework fairy. My assignment is being held ransom and I refuse to pay for it. The librarian thought it was an overdue library book and took it. The printer broke. And then ran out of ink. And then my kitchen caught fire. And then my Uncle Joe died. And then...

Irresponsibility is an ugly implement. Foolish behavior like that indicates immaturity, ignorance and a basic lack of sense, not to mention it insults the intelligence of those you embellish to. Excuses are my biggest pet peeve personally. I don't care how legitimate they are. Maybe the printer really did break, but try these on for size: I should have had a back-up plan. I should have been more prepared. I shouldn't have procrastinated. Instead of waiting until the last minute to print my paper, it should have been ready days ago. It's my fault; it's my bad. Apologies also tend to work well. I'm sorry. It won't happen again.

I hate excuses, but unnecessary blame is a more scandalous crime. And, sure, credit is limited and blame is endless and the grass always seems to be greener on the other side, but you know what? It's not my fault. Sometimes, that needs to be said. More importantly, it needs to be heard. It's not my fault.

I made my dad a mixed tape for "Valentine's Day" in tenth grade. In reality, I just wanted him to know how deeply he hurt me. He carried himself in such a "can't-tell-me-nothin" manner that I compiled a playlist describing how I felt exactly in twenty-five songs or less. (I ran across those songs by mistake tonight. Oops.) (I should have labeled the tape.) I remember so clearly the guilt I felt after delivering the music. He misconstrued my angry flag as a heartfelt gesture, bless his heart. He thought I made him the tape with love, that it would consist of a balanced combination of both of our favorite bands and songs and beats. Wrong. He took his girlfriend out to a movie that night to celebrate the so-called "holiday" while I watched some romantic, non-relatable television marathon with my mother. Laura--what kind of name is that, anyway?--picked him up at the end of the street, which annoyed and insulted me because we all knew exactly what was going on. I hesitate to say my family didn't care. (Obviously, I cared enough to make him a mixed tape.) We were just immobilized and uncurious. Disgustingly apathetic. A week later, we discovered the two-hundred-dollar coat Laura bought Dad in the backseat of the car on the way to church. Mom ran it over--twice--and left it tattered and torn in the snow-covered street. It's kind of funny, the memories we choose to hold onto.

It wasn't my fault then, and it's not my fault now.

"I followed you, Daddy. You told me that you weren't leavin'! You lied to me, Dad, and now you make Mommy sad. And I bought you this coin; it says 'Number One Dad.' That's all I wanted. I just wanted to give you this coin. I get the point--fine! Me and Mommy are goin'!"
But, baby, wait!
"It's too late, Dad. You made the choice. Now go out there and show 'em that you love 'em more than us."