Part one of what the fuck do I put as the title?

Hi, my name's Hannah and in a nutshell, I'm a fuck up. My life mainly consists of cigarettes, vodka and a whole lot of complaining.

I was born kicking and screaming and according to my mum; I never stopped. I was forever in trouble and almost always classed as a disgrace. Which is ironic, considering my name. I was a tiny little thing with big brown eyes, I looked as though butter wouldn't melt. Oh, what a shock it was to everyone when I decided to have a tantrum. The spawn of Satan was something I got called a lot, not surprising though, considering I was like something possessed. It wasn't normal, I've always known that much. I'd fly into fits of rage for no apparent reason, I was angry at the world at the age of three. You're probably thinking I was the child from hell right now, from an outsiders point of view, I was. What no one realised was that I was living in hell.

They called me Margaret Thatcher as a child, I was the three year old with an opinion. I was one of those bratty, obnoxious kids; you know the ones who lay on the floor screaming in the supermarket? Yeah, that was me. I used to do it regularly actually, I'd take my shoes off and launch them at whoever was in close range, my socks would be next. I'd lay on the floor and pull my dress over my head, shouting and swearing until I got what I wanted. I don't think I was ever sure of what I wanted, though. It was never for the toys or the sweets, it was more for the attention and boy, didn't I get it. I can still remember my parents shouting and pinching the bridges of their noses, hiding their faces in embarrassment. “What the bloody hell is wrong with her now?” Was usually the first question, then I'd be yanked up off the floor, marched out of the shop and put in the car. My mother despaired of me and my father resented me. “Why can't she be more like her brother?” I asked myself the same question a lot of the time. Why couldn't I be more like him?