I Choose Not to be a Perfect Child

I'm a teenager.
I get grumpy.
Not because my hormones are unbalanced.
Not because I'm a rebel without a cause turning my wrath on the nearest authority figure.
If I don't act happy, it's because I'm not.
I complain when my parents, who have heard me say I'm a vegetarian for twelve years, take me out to a steakhouse.
I complain when my mother, who turns off the modem every night so I won't have internet access, asks me what a modem is.
I complained when my parents take me to my graduation dinner and show up later to pay the bill.
I complain when my dad, who wouldn't let me learn archery the entire summer I was fourteen, teaches my twelve year old brother archery skills after him asking once.
I complain because nothing gets better when you don't.
I don't complain because my parents are some subhuman evil.
I complain because they aren't perfect superhumans.
I complain because I'm human.
And you do to. So don't cast the first stone.