I'm Wide Awake it's Tuesday.

So, I don't go to see my therapist anymore. Which basically means I will not have anywhere to assert minor grievances and speak about my all sorts of tomfoolery.  I guess today I will write what I would say to my therapist.

My mother is a very inconsiderate person.  She puts herself before everyone, and does not think about the feelings of others before she speaks.  Though we have been having superficial fun lately, mostly with my cat, she remains immature and an unfit parent. Maybe I can take advantage of this behavior and go to the mall? 

I think I'm having commitment issues. I have no desire to even remotely consider a serious relationship.   I have learned this through my actions as of late.  Is this because I only like getting what I want? For example, a guy wants me, so I cannot, by default, like them? Or is it my plummeting self-worth that is preventing me from believing that I am worth more than a vodka drink and a sofa fuck. I suppose that was a question. I think all in all, I would rather just be bad then have to live up to being good. 

I am ever annoyed by "it's complicated" yet it seems like I strive to put myself in those situations.  I would like to believe this is my subconscious desire to create good art.  I know what is required of me. 

 It's such a Tuesday.  I used to not spell Tuesday correctly.  Made for some bad days in 7th grade, or was it 6th... I had Mr. Marino... Oh God and Matt Joseph. He made fun of me so much. Wonder where he is now? Wonder if anyone will be writing a blog in 10 years about how much I make fun of them? 

First Bloggy.

Here Lies. So many ways one could read that aloud. "Here lies Ali..." "Here, Lies (I've created just for you...) Mostly that is what this will be. A combination of lies, and Ali laying somewhere babbling on about such, and such. I mean mostly to provide a space for things that should someday end up in a memoir.

A brief history.  I am an average girl, who acts more like a gay boy.  By average I mean height and weight. I am an only child and tend to act like one, with the tendency for melodrama and selfishness, always later bombarded by enormous guilt and selflessness. I also have the propensity for mental illness, of no particular genre.  My mother is bipolar and my father is a neurotic workaholic.  My genetics have predetermined me to be fucked.  

As if I were some self-fulfilling prophecy, I had a nervous breakdown after years of an eating disorder. I guess one could say I recovered, and now I'm just another medicated human of the U S of A. 

I fall in love more than anyone should, and lust about as much as the devil.  My heart has been on my sleeve for so long it's got a skin of leather, but an inside of mush. Makes for wonderful artistic renderings.  

Art is my thing right now; I'm a painter, and I have a love hate relationship with the learning process. Someday I'm going to be famous, but I have yet to tell if it will be for art, writing, or my vagina. 

I have a kitten, Spencer, who I would like to introduce, as she loves my computer and pressing buttons, so I am predicting an occasional post about her antics, or a frustrated one about how she deleted it.  

I want to write something meaningful, and writing has finally been replaced by a decent wpm, hence, Here Lies.  

Anyways, (I almost said "any-who..." which seems a lot like something a person in a movie beginning with "Oh! Didn't see ya there!" would say.) it's evening after a rather "acting-my-age" weekend which has caused me to question my true self.  After too many naps, and a memorial day cookout, I am my true self.  Alcohol and harlotry are a part of it, and so are puppy-love text messages.  More on these when/if they develop into conflict.  If not, they will be like my glasses.  

My glasses are in Logan Square in Chicago IL on a guy's night stand.  I listened to his radio show when I was fourteen, and he graduated college, and got a pretty decent job in Chicago.  We talked briefly and ended up hooking up a few times once I was solidly single. But there my glasses remain, lonely without my face, but pretty forgotten. No joke, I'd rather get new ones.  

Well, popped this cherry.  Now it's time to become a slut, Blog.