“Hello, my name is Lisa and I’m a flake.”

I should wear a sign around my neck like this, to save people the time they might otherwise waste in getting to know me.  Truth is there’s really not that much to know.

In the end, I’m your typical, garden variety bore, born of young lust – infatuation, maybe.  My parents were two potentially great people who settled, as most of us do, for the possibility that it might work out in spite of the world.  It didn’t, as you will no doubt have guessed.

Their dysfunctional marriage, its inevitable failure and its aftermath have served for most of my life to impress on me the idea that I might have a Story to tell. And I have always taken some measure of joy in baring the bones of my life to whatever poor, unsuspecting audience I manage to reel in with the vaguest promise of something out of the ordinary.  Sadly, I have yet to master the art of lying myself into some semblance of interesting.

But then, when has that ever stopped a determined, serial oversharer from spilling the minute details of their day to day life?

Exactly. Which is why I won’t just stop at calling my parents a pair of mismatched failures, but I’ll go on to give you the inside scoop – a glimpse of the story *behind* the Story:

Dad liked his brandy and the odd bit of chocolate too much.  And Mom never learned to shut her mouth.  He would hit her, and she would taunt him to distraction, stir in him that impotent rage, beyond which there was nothing for it but to take it out on his liver, his fists having failed to deliver the expected result, until drunken oblivion brought with it a moment’s respite. This would of course and invariably be followed by the obligatory period of sobriety and an impassioned love letter of Byronic proportions.

And so she left him one morning, and marched her bruised self to the first lawyer’s office she could find.  They were officially divorced on June 25th, 1982.  She never looked back and some say that he never recovered.  And, just because I like to fool myself that there is significance to the symmetry of these things – I was delivered of a spirited baby girl exactly twenty years later…

But I’m getting ahead of myself now…


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