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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