I only really write when I get inspiration. Which is a dumb thing for me to actually make my first sentence because doesn’t everyone only really write when they have inspiration? Well, anyway.
My name is Jessica. I make lame attempts at being quirky. I’m depressed in the most boring, typical way that makes me sardonic. I smoke cigarettes as a walking tribute to irony.
And I look like my mother.
Why is that a bad thing? Because I hate my mother. Not in the way an adolescent girl hates things but in a seasoned, adult, I’ve-seen-shit kinda way. I hate the way I walk like her, how I’m typically drawn to her brand of cigarettes even though I swore never to smoke (or do drugs like any good elementary kid going through the D.A.R.E. program did), I speak like her, my facial expressions mirror hers, and I also spend money I don’t have like her. I am my mother, she comes out of my mouth and into my air. And I hate that about myself.
I love my dog, I love my boyfriend, I love books and thrift stores and Charleston, SC. I want to go to Savannah, GA one day, I also want to visit Disney World in the next 5 years, or at least honeymoon there. I’m scattered, a little twisty, and somewhat dull sometimes, but at least I’m realistic.