I hate myself. I'm an ass. I make a fool out of myself. I have no regard for anyone else. And then, I barely remember anything. I'm stupid, lazy, pathetic; I should be ashamed...

I could go on like that forever. It's really easy for me to beat myself up. In fact, it's probably one of the things I'm best at. But what's the point of it? It doesn't help. It just makes things worse. No, instead of yelling at myself and going in circles, I think it's about time I look at it. Why do I do it? Why do I promise to control myself, only to not even try? If I'm not in control of my life, then what is? Who am I really?

I am a women in her mid-twenties. I am sweet and shy, with a slightly twisted sense of humour. I am sensitive and emotional and I care about others too much-except for the times I am selfish. I enjoy time to myself sometimes, to relax, but I never really like being alone. I'm smart, but I'm burnt-out and have issues with my memory. I am a social misfit who never had many friends growing up, but the ones I had where as close as family. I am an only child. Born to an alcoholic (a depressed, pessimistic, cynical drunk) and a neurotic, delusional, pathologically lying enabler. I've always preferred animals to humans. I look better with my clothes on. I make as few decisions as I can get away with. Sometimes I think too much, or do anything too much. I have trouble saying no. I don't know when to stop. I take things too far. Whether it's a joke or taking another drink or kissing someone goodbye, or going on and on about it.

Or licking a nipple. What was I thinking? Of course he didn't want me doing that. He tried to back away and keep playing the show. Oh, that's right. I wasn't thinking. I was drinking.

Someone on Saturday said I seemed "coke-y." I've never touched the stuff , but I can see what he was saying. I was fidgety, eyes darting, and just behaving sketchily.

I felt the way I did because I was there by myself, and only on my first beer. I can't talk to people, or make eye contact, so I drink.