You say you sick of me and I say I'm sick of you but we're crazy about eachother

Live fast bleed slow

[Editor's note: This is not a pity blog, nor is it a disguised plea for virtual empathy. I do not need, nor do I want, benevolence, but a one-sided conversation with you is all I ask, a cathartic ego trip. This will be self-deprecation at its finest. Commiseration is always welcome. Thanks.]

The only thing I do right is write (clever, but grammatically incorrect) and even that is not always exact. There exists a substantial amount of proof to the contrary of that statement, including, but not limited to, the episodes when I write complete and utter shit, the kind of word mash-up that compels me to question my role here on planet Earth; the previously thought literary role turns pornographic. Jenna Jameson and her deluge of drones were put here for good reason.

And now an examination of the aforesaid statement:

I am terrible in monogamous or committed relationships, or any combination of the two. I lie, cheat, and steal – figurative theft that is. For testimonials please see ex-boyfriends. The malfunction during said monogamous and committed relationships is a direct result of the red snakeskin suitcase immutably stuck to my right hand.

I carry baggage, and not a good extra-load, the infamous junk-in-my-trunk, or the ex-boyfriend purchased puppy, of which I now have joint custody. My junk is a contender in the mental health arena.

I come from a long line of crazy bitches, both male and female, the prodigal daughter of the prototypical dysfunctional family – anxiety stricken neurotics and middle-aged peeping Toms. Thus, I never do relationships justice. To my credit, I do seasonal flings and holiday lovers very well.

I am not a paragon for daughterhood. Yesterday I used a collection of both four and five letter words during conversation with my mother. This particular choice of words caused my auditory-sensitive mother to cringe and later blame my smutty lexicon on my father, which consequentially led to a tearful reminiscence of the time he sat on our family parakeet Dick. Aversive to tears I attempted escape, but a barrage of loving insults had already begun in the fleeting silence between hiccups.

It was of course the tattoos, ex-piercing(s), that God-awful rap music, the flying of the coop, only to return graduated and in debt, but without the possession of a legal gig, a 9-5 with benefits and a 401k. Lastly, it was the time I told her I was going to inmprison her in a retirement home as soon as she reached the minimum age requirement. As I reached the doorframe she turned my back with an inclusion of her recent discoveries: the condom in my purse, lube, and the immodest photos on my camera. In addition to a lineage of mental instability, I also descend from snoops.

I am not a functioning adult. My naivety and child-like face inhibit my capacity to do so. I do not have a television set in my room (subject to change), and so the news clippings I receive come from the MSN homepage, NPR, when reception allows, and my more politically aware cohorts. The lack of both technology and motivation are the precipitating factors for my world news ignorance. Of late I have begun a routine of news watching while shuffling shoeless around the kitchen, imitating news anchors and considering a life as a TV personality, similar to that of the attractive brunette on the OnDemand menu.

An incessant curiosity further inflames the suspicion of my naïvety, and especially to those on the receiving end of my questions. The recipient hears seemingly obvious questions and sees an adolescent face peering quizzically back. I am a real-life Peter Pan.

I would like to engage in self-deprecation for awhile longer, as it is both humbling and cathartic in its self-abuse, but I know there must be those readers frustrated by what I label my "inadequacies" – Like drugs users, ex-cons, and prostitutes. Instead I will return to the accepting wafer-thin arms of my paperback and count my blessings that I have never been in rehab, committed a federal offense, or taken sex for money. That would be a whore, and I prefer the term slut.