Prologue - the one where she chooses life

Bah. Good first sentence for an autobiography – find me someone else who’s used it – I dare ya! Who doesn’t want to be a writer, of the people who like to write that is? The fact is I’m 30. I’m a woman. An “alone” woman in that I don’t have a man, Don’t get me wrong, I have a “man” – but as good as a fuck as he is, we don’t kiss. I miss kissing the most. Okay, so what’s the point, there is no point, except that I know I’m not the only one out there who feels like this, and I know I’d like to read a memoir such as this (cause it ain’t a book yet, baby, and probably won’t be – and to that end I blame the publishing companies who underestimate the drug users and whomever who would read this shit).

Clearly, on this journey we ride the stream of consciousness train – welcome aboard…

I had dinner tonight with a great friend (who just happens to be a cousin of another great friend, though this particular great friend introduced me to “sluggin’ from the jug” that is Cuervo - ), I’ll call her Dolly. After my grandmother, and because she’s as beautiful as a porcelain doll… Anyhoo – we went to a restaurant where my mother’s best friend's son is the head chef of (and, consequently, whom I grew up with - as babies). Tonight I found out that my darling Dolly is crazy too. YAY – someone who will understand me. And just to keep with the stream of consciousness – currently writing to Nothing’s Shocking by Jane’s Addiction –

Regardless, my darling friend Dolly is crazy too. What’s crazy? Well, it a devil induced cocktail of deep, dark depression with ever the most slighest twist of anxiety. So you wanna sleep all day and night and the next day, but once you’re forced to get up – you freak out in public. Not to worry, they make pills for that. As you can imagine, having an anxiety attack on public transport, and then pulling out a bottle of pills – which you dry mouth down – well, that’s a good time.

I don’t know what to make of the situation. I know god is dead. Christ isn’t coming back, and if he did, a pox on him. We’re good people, we’re just “crazy”, and we can’t help it.

But this memoir isn’t going to be all like this, there will be funny stories, mostly involving drugs, but there you go. So far, Siobhan has done a bang up job of living.

It hurts, feeling like a loser. I believe I mentioned my man or men earlier – I just miss being kissed. Kissed all good like. Now, if I’m lucky, a man I’ll call "Gaylord" fucks me all good. But we don’t kiss. As a woman, it’s hard not to judge you worth with regards to if you’re wanted. And as a fat girl (but we defend that with an “I’m curvy and proportionate” – but I really am) it’s even worse.

Love, being wanted, that’s what girls are trained, and yes, TRAINED, to be… And when you can’t fit the mold, or there is something you perceive wrong with you, you get depressed. And sure, it’s a brain chemistry thing; but what’s to say that if I take this high does of Zoloft (and Seraquel, and Inderol, and Propanolol, and Clonezapam…) for the three years they told me to that once the meds are gone, my serotonin will drop again. Drug companies don’t want you well, they want you consumers. And doctors don’t know what the hell they’re talking about.

By the way – this book will be much more entertaining, the Prologue – who reads that anyway…

So, here’s the story of me. The very witty intelligent girl who could never find love or acceptance (even though she did) because she’s just too fat to be loveable (even though somewhere she knows she’s not).

Post Scriptum –

If I die, somehow, in this process – I want my tombstone to say “In Arcadia Ego” – which is a credit to the Priory of Sion, and means – Even in the garden of life; I (death) exist…

And if I go prematurely, I’m sorry; I can hardly take this world as it is.