intro to my novel, Addicted.


In my family, Its Lake an inherited disease, passed from parent to child, to child, to child…

My father: sex/heroin addict. Beat and raped my mother, and was finally locked away for life after chopping up some prostitute he found on the corner who was going to let him invade her for the profit of none other than ol’ h. I guess he didn’t want my mom to find out he was paying another woman for the kind of sex that my mother denied him or something, so his initial reaction was to take a dull steak knife to her. So yeah.

It was discovered later that her name was Martha, she was 32, had no close family or friends, and she lived with a pet cat named tuna. Tuna lives with me and my mom now. It was the least we could do.

My grandmother: alcoholic. Her favorite activity was to spend her whole paycheck on straight cooking cherry and take her baby boy for a drive. I was told that on his eighteenth birthday, they were on one of these car trips, and his mother just happened to swerve, just happened to lose control, just happened to spin off the main road and into an old oak tree that just happened to completely obliterate her side of the vehicle while my father walked away with a sprained wrist and a black eye. Poor mommy was pronounced dead on the scene. She was basically just hamburger meat. However, I also have grown into the knowledge that that was the day my father was leaving for good anyway, and I know that if I was in his position id be fully aware that for the rest of my life this woman would bleed me dry of money and spend it all on happy juice. Am I saying that I would’ve gone so far as to grab the steering wheel and mash mommy into a tree?? No. I’m just saying that the Burdon of knowing that would be at the back of my mind or my whole life. However I probably would’ve considered rehab and sponsors and a fucking twelve step program.

Her mother: crystal meth. All I know about her is that she blew up in a lab explosion.

I think you get the point.

My whole life, id been aware of y fate. At some points go through phases, trying to maybe turn my addiction-gene into a blessing, like being addicted to saving lives, or addicted to preforming arts.

But the harsh reality had broken through my stubborn shell, and I realized that that just wasn’t how it worked.

I’ve hated myself ever since I was a little girl. My mother would sometimes find me just glaring at my reflection in a mirror, with a resentful look on my face. I remember counting my 36 freckles that dot my nose and cheeks and trying to rub brown or yellow crayons on my fiery red hair. I despised my chubby cheeks and my straight down nose that didn’t curl up like my baby dolls did. I think what I hated most, and still hate, is the fact that I am practically the girl version of my father…

Once, a rainy Monday when I was 6, I was home sick. My mother had stayed home watching me, but was relaxing in her room, listening to some book on tape or something like that. Anyway, I sat myself n front of a mirror for the millionth time, and looked into my own eyes. They were a light grey. Not even a green or blue or brown tint. Just straight up storm cloud gray. I hated it. Mary Anne, my flawless best friend at the time, had brilliant golden ringlets and red lips and eyes blue as a Hawaiian lagoon. I thought about her stunning, beautiful eyes next to my ugly boring ones. Now, six year olds have the logic of  a fucking goldfish, and so I thought, maybe if I colored my eyes with a blue Crayola marker, they’d stay that way.

Several minutes later my mother was forcing my face in the sink as I screamed and hollered and kicked. It was then that I realized that changing myself would be painful.


8 years later, hear I was, still unsatisfied with myself.

From first grade to 9th, Maryanne has been in a commercial and around 10 plays in school and through city programs. Every boy loved her, fell for her, and was lucky to get her. Well, is lucky to get her body. She had the physical appearance of Kate Upton, the mental capabilities of Kim Kardashian, and an ego larger that her breasts and butt put together. So, they get their skinny waist and firm ass, but they get a shit person to go along with it.

As you had probably inferred, me and Maryanne have…drifted, somewhat.

There she would be, surrounded by snapbacks and brotanks, the center of attention in her pink circle skirt and obnoxious floral shirt. And their id be, my tattered green flannel, ripped genes, and a book.

I hated Maryanne, but not as much as I hated myself.

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