Bitches ain't Shit...

oh man... i dont know what to do... number one's always freak me out. Its the OCD, i just know it... i just hate the ( 1 ) in everything. Not to mention that the number one has everything to do with the word first, which sucks as well. I never know what to do first. How do i start something? I get panic-y ( sp?) and my palms get clamy. Starting a blog is so hard unless a bunch of people that you've known your whole life are the ones who are reading it... How do you just pick up and start writing what is going on without giving a back story on your whole life? I cant just start off with everything that is going on right now because anyone who gives enough shit to read this will be thinking, "What the hell is this girl talking about?!?" And i care way to much about everyone else to just start into something. So what SHOULD i say? I will probably post many "blogs" asking that question. Where should i start off? I guess (against my better judgement).... now, and i'll tie up any lose ends as they come along.
I like to think of blogs as my own personal book. Aparently my dad ( who in his infinite drunken wisdom) knows that one day i will be a writer. (this also comimg from the man who thinks that i have a third generation heart...) Unfortunately, i dont agree with him at all because i think i just ramble on and on with writing... alot like the way i talk. I get frazzled <----( probably my favorite word for this week.....) I dont know what to say, and i just start going of on some random rant. I'll do that alot, but hey... it keeps things interesting....
Well... i'd go on and write more random things but i'm a little tired, so i'll end this (gulp) first blog with an little selection from a book i'm reading at the moment....

" Finally, I approach the bed, over at the part where his face rests and the springs and coils connect the mattress to the couch, and i take my little fingers and carefully peel his eye open as if I were a police officer examining a corpse at the scene of a crime. At first, I expose just the white, but eventually the iris and pupil roll into view, and I in turn roll into his view, and he looks a little stunned, like this is not quite what he expected, like who is this stranger standing over his face, or like maybe he's been driving for a long time and he somehow has picked up the wrong hitchhiker.
And i say, Daddy, its me.
My dad does his imitation of Donald Duck for me and the other kids, and then he is gone..."
Elizabeth Wurtzel - 'Prozac Nation'

That little segment is so eerily related to my life that it scares me. I started reading this book about Elizabeth Wurtzel's battle with depression just randomly, but it has so much in common with parts of my life. I remember being tiny and my dad sleeping on a fold out bed at my grandma's while he and my mom were on a trial separation. I remember doing anything and everything i could to wake him up in the morning from peeling his eyelids open to pulling on his arm hair (haha...). My dad too did a wonderful imitation ( or at least i thought it was wonderful when i was 4) of Donald Duck for me and whoever else happens to be in the room, and then he left. I dont remember the exact circumstances of it all but i remember him leaving and not coming back for a long time. I didnt find out the reason why he left until i was about 14, but that's a story for another day... (ohh... cliffhanger, how DARING of me, lmao. i'll write more tomorrow.)

Ah... i almost forgot. The title of my blog is a Ben Fold's cover. Richard (the amazing boyfriend) made a crazy hilarious mix cd for me and "bitches ain't shit" was on it.