“All parents damage their children. It cannot be helped. Youth, like pristine glass, absorbs the prints of its handlers. Some parents smudge, others crack, a few shatter childhoods completely into jagged little pieces, beyond repair.” The Five People You Meet in Heaven, Mitch Albom

What bothers me the most about my parents is the sheer inability to prioritise their lives. I'm not that old and I don't misconceptions with regard to my own life experience but I know without a shadow of a doubt that if I were to make the decision to procreate I would make peace with the fact that from then on, for better or worse, my life would no longer be my own. I would commit myself to the bump, be prepared to make personal sacrifices for the happiness of my child and know that I would be unable to put myself first in any situation from that point onwards. I believe 9 months would be plenty of time to make that decision.

For years now I've been told I'm selfish. That I should stop thinking about myself. After all, do I really want my parents to die alone? I should stiffen up that upper lip put aside my differences with their chosen partners and be happy for them. Fuck that. They chose to have me, I was no accident I was a planned and celebrated foetus. To stamp all over me, to throw me between houses for convenience and to push me out of their lives on request is not fair. "Well lifes not fair" I hear you say. Well no it fucking isn't and I don't think I should be expected to bend over and accept the mess I find myself in because I am not responsible for creating it. I'm all for making ones bed and lying in it. But right now I'm camped out in someone elses fucking bed and I was never in the least bit welcome or invited.

Whats more ... yes I would prefer my parents to die alone if it ment escaping thier miserable excuses for lives. If they had found untold happiness with thier new partners, once-upon-a-time-happily-ever-after type shit then sure I'd swallow it and deal with it. But when I see my Mother in tears acting like a 2008 revised born again lesbian version of the downtrodden 1950s housewife and when I see my Daddy acting like a shadow of what he was when I was his only daughter it breaks my heart. One day they will both face up to the mistakes they've made by which time it will be too late to make amends. The only good that can come of this is the hope that their grandchildren will benefit from their parent's lessons learned. As long as I have good misery and good company I'll be ok, that much I've learned for myself.

"The White Rabbit put on his spectacles..."

“... 'Where shall I begin, please your Majesty?' he asked. 'Begin at the beginning,' the King said gravely, 'and go on till you come to the end: then stop.'” Alice in Wonderland, Lewis Carroll

I'd like to say that if you've come here to read my honest account of life in general that's exactly what you're going to get. However, if I was to say that it would not be true and would be a very bad start. I'm an awful liar. Well, I'm a great liar and that, it seems, is the problem. I lie mostly to make a menial life more interesting. As I've grown up I've started to feel a stab of guilt after doing so, though not enough to encourage me to stop it would seem.

It would be easy to blame my pathological lies on my dysfunctional family dynamics and though I have no problem blaming a whole host of downfalls on that, this I cannot. It stems back much further than that. I've been told stories by my mother of how I would just constantly make things up as a small child. My older brother always kept himself to himself and as a result my Mum was overjoyed when I started school as she would gain insight into the daily goings on via me. It was true that I was a big talker...I could talk before I could walk. But I believe I was aware of the expectations put upon me to be the 'chatterbox'. Therefore, when there was nothing interesting to recount to my Mum at the end of the day the only logical solution was to make it up. One uneventful day I was as usual confronted by my mother at the end of the school day and found myself at a loss of what to say. Without hesitation I described to her how we spend the whole afternoon in the art area painting and I took the time to embellish what I painted, what praise I received, who I paired up with etc. As a result I received much craved attention from my mother and she gained the satisfaction of having a child who felt able to 'open up' to her. It wasn't until she was talking on the phone to another parent later on that evening who revealed her daughter who happened to be in my class never mentioned painting today -- "Meg why didn't you tell me you painted today?" "Because I didn't." And so started an ongoing cycle of developing more and more bullet proof lies which in later life would aid me in avoiding confrontations, allowing myself to be pulled between 2,3,4 people, covering up previous lies and sometimes just to make things a bit more interesting.

Today the unsuspecting individual serving me my Ice Tea and More magazine made the mistake of striking up small talk with me. As I mentioned earlier I did feel a bit bad after I had vacated the shop, when it struck me that none of what I just said was even remotely true but its just the way I am.

The key is to keep it simple and believable. After all, I could be one half of a pair 21 year old twin sisters from London studying Law at the University of Manchester after spending 2 years volunteering in Ghana with disadvantaged children, right?