My Parents Never Beat Me

I don't exactly plan on anyone reading this. I have always thought this sort of thing to be quite self-indulgent but I am an 18 year old girl, so self-indulgent is exactly what I am. Yesterday I decided to start writing my memoir. Four paragraphs later and I'm spent--I'm a bit of a procrastinator. I don't have much to write about so perhaps the stuff I write in this will fuel a page or two in my ridiculous attempt to be David Sedaris. I may never write past the four poorly written paragraphs that I've accomplished thus far but I had to write something because I thought of a title months ago. So here are the first couple of paragraphs that I have written for my never-to-be-finished memoir entitled...

"My Parents Never Beat Me"
A Memoir
(Kind Of)

I know what you’re thinking right now: “I wish Cher and Celine would do a double feature show in Vegas”. Me too, me too. Or perhaps you just looked me up on Google images and as your eyes scan this page you can hardly function because your heart has been punctured by the beauty of my face—it happens. Or maybe you just found out that I am merely a college student at a highly competitive liberal arts college intended mainly for well off daughters of lawyers. This, of course, prompts the question: “How could a girl with limited years of functioning life and an upper middle class suburban childhood write a memoir?” Honestly, I’m not quite sure.
I am writing as a bored eighteen year old girl living in the limbo that is the summer vacation before her first year of college. Right now I am somewhere in Palm Beach County, Florida (the place that ruined the 2000 presidential election) and in a matter of months I will be packing my bags with shoes, graphic t-shirts, mace, and a rape whistle in order to head off to college in the extraordinarily scary city of New York. I am fairly certain that only self-obsessed people carry rape whistles.
If I am lucky I will finish this memoir before I graduate from college, leaving me just enough time to get it published, become involved in a huge scandal (it’s good for publicity) and reap the benefits of my DUI arrest as my book flies off the shelves. This will of course supply me with enough money to pay off the inevitable debt that my private college has caused me to amass while also providing me with the same street cred that stars like Paris Hilton and Lindsay Lohan so joyously bask in. Or, more likely, I will continue to be writing this at age thirty in my studio apartment where I run an underground Cuban cigar shop and own multiple cats. Either way, if you are reading this right now and it is bound in book form (with a cover and everything) then I must have finished writing it—go me!
It is probably important that I explain the title (and although I believe it to be quite self explanatory I am aware that most people are not very intelligent—not you of course—just those other people who may have foolishly stumbled across my moderately well written memoir). The title is a fact: My parents never beat me. They never sexually assaulted me. I was not impregnated by my uncle. My grandfather did not partake in the illegal sale of foreign plants (that I know of). Frankly, I was never even verbally assaulted, I only did the assaulting. My childhood was wonderful, my schooling was the best that the public school system had to offer, and I never starved unwillingly. I even managed to be gay without ever being kicked out of my house or made fun of by my peers. This is why the third line of the title, the (Kind Of), is the most important part of my memoir. Sure, I could write an entire book about how I often curled up in a ball and blasted Alanis Morissette while I wrote depressing poetry during my middle school years. But there was no real pain and suffering in that, just a lot of angst. What is more fun about my life thus far is the one I created for myself in my own head. I’ve always been an insatiable child; my own monotonous life does nothing to excite me. This (Kind Of) memoir is a home to stories, some true, and some fiction, but most a combination of the two. I often forget what has actually happened to me and what I have made up in order to keep myself from dozing off at the thought of my own boring life—so these stories won’t try to differentiate between the two, they will just be.