Life, for Dummies
Summary:
In life, we have two options: be aggressive to everyone and end up in a fight everyday; or, be really nice, and end up getting your heart broken. Both options are bad. I suppose, really, it's just a matter of balance, but that's easier said than done. There's no guidebook; no Getting through High School and the later years where you think 'shit, I'm getting crows feet' For Dummies.
A/N:
So, yeah, this is just something I wanted to try... it's Rated M for lemons and swearing and drug use. Oh, and don't expect any character, however minor, to be left alone. This Jessica is going to end up as quite a bitch, so don't expect even nice little Angela to remain un-bitched out. Just so ya know.
Prologue:
Bimbo's Can Write
In life, we have two options: be aggressive to everyone and end up in a fight everyday; or, be really nice, and end up getting your heart broken. Both options are bad. I suppose, really, it's just a matter of balance, but that's easier said than done. There's no guidebook; no Getting-through-High-School –and-the-later-years-where-you-think-'shit,-I'm-getting-crows-feet' For Dummies.
When I was a kid, I thought life was simple. I thought that the worst pain ever was cutting your knee and getting a tiny stone stuck in the cut and then ripping the plaster off later. When I was a kid, I planned my life out: I decided that I was going to marry a man called Fred (why Fred? I have no idea) and then buy a farm with sheep and horses, and the horses would turn into unicorns at midnight, and my whole life would be perfect. I wouldn't have to worry about money or fighting with my husband because that sort of stuff didn't happen to me; that stuff happened to my friends' parents, because they didn't have true love.
That naivety seems ridiculous now. Now, I'm twenty six and I'm living in a grotty flat with my two children: three year old twins, one boy, and one girl. Their father isn't around, luckily for him; after what that son-of-a-bitch did, I'd kick every inch of his ass all the way to Australia if he turned up here.
Damn that bastard and his money.
But, to be fair, he's not the only bastard who needs damning. I've been screwed over way too many times in my life; I can't blame it all on him. There are other people – including myself – who need some extreme punishment. Preferably punishment involving a good knife to chop of either their dick of their boobs, depending on their gender.
Which is why, in the tiny amount of free time I get, I'm going to write this book, naming and shaming everyone. Maybe it won't get published; maybe they won't read it; maybe they wouldn't even care either way. But you know what? Neither do I. Just writing it will be enough for me.
So, here I am, sitting in front of my ancient, shitty computer, trying to remember the long gone English lessons I had at school; the English lessons that I spent either gossiping or daydreaming about whichever lame-ass boy I was into at the time.
God, I was a bimbo.
But bimbos can write. Bimbos can type words. And that is exactly what I'm going to do.