I've decided

Today is the big day.

I've come to the realization that I'm un-a-fucking-preciated.

My father's memorial service is in Golden Gate Park this Saturday, and I'm dreading it with every step I take closer. I tear up when I think of my father's ashes sitting on the kitchen table (are they on the kitchen table? I haven't looked...). I don't want to go. I want to be selfish and stay in bed, but I can't imagine people looking at me in the same light as they look at my perfect sister that decided that work was more important while I shell out money I don't have to make this happen. My mother and I changed the date we had planned the memorial so that her highness could make it, and bring her precious son, that I've never met, so she could tell more precious lies to the world about how accomplished she is. The bitch runs around cheating on her husband, and posting naked, wrinkled photos of herself online, and everyone praises her because she has her perfect little house and her perfect little job in Florida. I don't understand it. She's the 'good daughter'.

Plain and simple truth that's never told...I ran away from home when I was a little girl. When I say little girl, I mean I was someone that was about 11 when I first noticed that I could be noticed by doing anything drastic. I think I watched too much 80's television and I thought suicide attempts were pretty cool. I used any excuse to cut myself, and scar myself, making sure I left blood on the bathroom floor so someone could come running and worried about poor little S. Yes, I'm S. My mother didn't know what to do with me. I didn't really want her to do anything. I wanted her to be more like my grandmother, letting her children walk all over her, and getting away with pretty much anything. My uncle Dee, I'll call him, was pretty much my hero. I would chase after him, late nights on Haight Street, hoping that he'd take me under his wing and let me hang with him and his friends. It never happened. Funny, how I'm the one that ended up sitting in front of a computer screen, doing nothing with my life, and he lost his leg and it seems to be the best thing that's ever happened to his.

Well, la di da...This page seems to be turning into my life story, and that's not really what I intended it to be. I need a place...a place to look back on and see that my life was fucked up but I don't have to let it be. This isn't my first blog, but it's the first blog that I'm actually writing in. It's the first blog that is going to be all me...hopefully no one will ever actually find it. With my luck, I'll be called by my mother from work, saying, "OK. What the fuck S? Why does the world need to know about all this shit?" But hey, everyone else posts their life on the internet. Why should I be any different?

I'm going to go dig through the pile of shit in my room now, so I can find my chapstick. I need to get laid.