Genre: Autobiography, Self-Help
Length: TBD
Heat Level: Just messing with ya. I would never be so gauche as to reveal the intimate details of my so-called romantic life.
WTF is this Shite? I mean, here's a Blurb.
For years now I have been intending to publish some sort of combination of memoir and workbook. I start out determined, but as time goes on I say "oh, hell, what makes me think I can do this?"
I'm writing the book I wish had been there for me, and I'm going to try and stick with it this time.
Snippet
“I’d rather fail with my own shit than succeed with someone else’s,” --Eddie Van Halen
I’ve always been trouble and sometimes that goes double. I was born on February 15, 1965, in Denver, Colorado during a raging blizzard. My father, who was extremely sick with a respiratory infection, had to get out and push the car back on the road while my mother, who was in labor, steered. They made it to the hospital where I made my debut as my mother received the encouraging words of “God punishes those who don’t push!” from her obstetrician.
By all accounts, I was a horrible infant who never slept more than two hours at a stretch. When I was 18 months old, some colossal fuckwit of a pediatrician prescribed me phenobarbital. This medication worked paradoxically as many psych meds do for me. I remained awake for three days straight and I can only imagine that I was an unholy terror to deal with for my sleep-deprived parents.
Many years and misdiagnoses later, I learned that I have ADHD.
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How I wish that your parents had been able to give you into the care of the pediatrician until the pheno wore off. I bet they would have loved that too.
ReplyDeleteIt would have served the bastard right, wouldn't it?
DeleteI can't help feeling sorry for my small self. Given my paradoxical reactions to benzodiazepines, I can only imagine I was probably in a state of panic the whole time.
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ReplyDeleteI presume you'll pardon me for not cutting said asswipe physician too much slack. What kind of an idiot gives a toddler hard drugs?
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