Where I would like to be now is curled up beside a crackling flaming fire with a mug of hot chocolate, a cat and a book, outside an autumn night with the crisp smell of fallen leaves and bonfires on the air and the distant hope of snow.Instead I exist in a world of ice and smoke.
This, like all diaries, will be an exercise in self-indulgance. My political views may anger you, personality frustrate you, whining nauseate you and spelling make you want to slap me, but I make no promises. You are here to peek into my soul. If you leave me feedback, perhaps I will be given the opportunity to peek into yours.
This is not a reality show. Neither is The Osbournes. Whose idea of reality do they represent? Do you live in a mansion and get to meet the president? (Would you perhaps spit in his face if you did?)
If they made a reality show about my life, I'd wear a paper bag over my head. I'd rant about supermodels and the very concept of celebrity. I'd down my pills like a good girl, because even bad girls are forced into having to be good girls. I'd show them my scars, and my whips. I'd lecture them on health food and then smoke a cigarette, because did I tell you I'm a hypocrite too? And so are you, my friends, every one of you I dare suspect. Do you tell yourself that you're not?
Sometimes, my ghosts have been a friend to me.
Would you care to see my skeletons?
