Honestly,Helen. Chapter 1

Dear Journal,

Here we are, as suggested by my therapist. Can't a girl have a bloody meltdown in the public library any time she well pleases? Not really a meltdown. Just a moment of frustration really. There was some actual screaming to myself and crying so I suppose I understand how strangers might see it that way. I suppose that's understandable when I write it and re-read it. Anyhow, it has lead me here in the bathtub with a beer in one hand, and you in the other. I've been advised to write my events of the days and my feelings about those as regularly and honestly as possible.

I'm already bored.

If I'm honest, (which I always am) it seems I'm always one step away from utter destruction or exquisite happiness. It's like a see-saw of some sort. As of late, the prior has become a more likely turn of events.

Yep. Life is pretty much rubbish right now. Bills piled higher than my dirty dishes, and loneliness that not even a room full of cuddly puppies could fix.

Well you haven't tried that one yet, have you now Helen?

*Note to self; make an online post titled "Lonely 20-Something Seeking Puppy Cuddles". Could very well do the trick. *More on that later.*

Back to what I was saying. Life has been absolute rubbish lately. Even my grocery store trips have been miserable since a certain gray-headed cashier lady arrived last month covered in diamonds. You read that right, folks. Covered in diamonds, and working at the Midtown Market. Who needs a cashier job when you're that old and rich?

Rich, old people kill me with their "Oh to be young and pretty again" bull crap at precisely the wrong moments. It never fails. As soon as I'm having as decent a day as possible, I run into some well-meaning individual. Today that individual was Martha.

"Look, Martha there is nothing I'd rather do than listen to you go on for hours about how wonderful your youthful years were and how many rich boyfriends you had in places I'll never have enough money to visit, but..."

Oops. Did I say that aloud? Nope, she's still smiling creepily at me. Phew. Close call Helen.

"Martha dear, I'm running very late for a very important meeting."

(With my DVR and Ben and Jerry's.)

"Could we pick this back up the next time I run in for more cranberry juice?"

"Sure dear, sure." She gives me a pitiful smile and hands me my bag. I make a dash for it before she tries to force that wrinkly receipt into my now sweaty palms.

*Note to self; Don't ever get a flippin UTI again and a trip for cranberry juice won't be necessary.

"Oh to be young and pretty again."

Good one, Martha.

[Knock knock]

So much for a therapeutic bath. Wonder who it is? Options: angry apartment manager Jim asking me to sign over my firstborn son as a form of payment before he is even conceived, or my gaudy grandmum inviting me to the monthly Potluck breakfast that somehow manages to carry on through lunch and dinner?

Fingers crossed it's Jim. Signing off for now.

Honestly,

Helen