intro

it's snowing. i don't like snow. i wish i liked snow as much as everybody else seems to like snow in december but i just can't get into it. apparently, philadelphia hasn't seen this much snow in several years. i wouldn't know; we just moved here in june. but i suppose everyone is jumping up and down about the snow because they haven't seen it in a while, which i can understand, but having come from connecticut where snow is more than abundant, i am underwhelmed---nay--less than underwhelmed. i am de-whelmed. anti-whelmed. the opposite of whelmed. whatever. i just don't like it. anyway. i'm avoiding the point here. i'm writing for a reason. my mother wants me to write a memoir. i suppose she thinks it will be good "therapy" or whatever. let me see if i can find the text message she sent me....right ok:
Mom: Do you keep a journal?
Me: sometimes, why?
Mom: you should start keeping one consistently. you could compile it into a memoir. you're just such a good writer, you should really be writing your thoughts down more often.

i can only assume she wants me to write a memoir about my mental illness. nothing else about my life is specifically unique, and she hasn't asked either of my brothers or my sister to write one, so it's not a run of the mill "my kid is just so talented" idea. so that leaves the mental illness thing.
it's not a bad idea really, i do like to write, and i'm sure it would be great therapy but there's that thing about writing where sometimes people actually READ what you write and i'm not all over that...! feelings make me all kinds of uncomfortable, and writing about mental illness involves lots of feels. and sharing feelings like that kinnnnndof freaks me out. so here's what we're gonna do. i'm just going to pretend no one will ever read this. that should do it. and if someone ever DOES happen to read it i'm sure there's a nice rock somewhere i can go live under for the rest of my life.