Precedent indicates that someone with my kind of upbringing wouldn’t survive one year of college without developing a mild substance abuse problem or getting tattoos, much less my three and a half. Instead, I’ve developed a pop culture addiction behind my parents’ backs, and now I hope to turn it into a career.
Two months in New York, and I was begging for a chance to prove myself as a gift wrapper. The worst part was, I knew I couldn’t do it. My presents often looked like I wrapped them while riding a roller coaster. Even for items as easy as books I ended up using a half a roll of tape.
The process of me organizing this move has been intense. I’ve pretty much been putting off packing until the last minute, because I feel like no one should have to do actual work on Christmas. (ps. Christmas for me starts on Dec. 1st.)
When it comes to getting a dog, clearly, the kind of person who chooses that as her profession isn’t going to prance over to a breeder’s and walk out with some asshole Pomeranian to lug around in her Louis V bag. No, Sophie’s a mutt.
As I stood dumbfounded in front of the cooler, Johnny Marr walked off and began filling up a cardboard container with pre-prepared foods. As I watched him, I thought to myself about how unlikely it was that of all the places Johnny Marr might be at this moment, he was here, shopping at a Whole Foods in Washington D.C.
Days spent at Bleecker Park, Leroy Park, and Leroy Library have given me glimpses of women who I am positive are in, as the Gawker article once noted, “sexless marriages.” They’re worn-out, annoyed, and very much “over it.” They can really only focus on their manicure, their high-end shoes, or the fact that their youth is pretty much over.
The thrill of checking GYNO/GET ON BIRTH CONTROL off of my to-do list was like checking off “LAUNDRY” times a thousand. I have brought it up to my mother at least five times and she gets really annoyed and makes a comment about how I have no boundaries.
On television, people have accidentally shot and killed their best friend while playing with their dad’s gun. In books, people have cried silently as their uncle slid his dick between their prepubescent thighs. How could my story compare to those? Nobody wants to hear about the time as a child I was offered a blowjob.
I don’t remember when I began saying I was allergic to honeydew melon, but I know it was a long time ago. Honeydew melon seems like an appealingly quirky thing to have an allergic reaction to. My dad is allergic to honeydew melon. One time my throat itched a little after eating it. Stopped lying about this last year.
I was miserable because I truly thought I was meant to be something better than just your average pedestrian teenager. There was no Freaks and Geeks yet; there was nothing that made me romanticize what I was. The Breakfast Club was funny but in the real life version of it we were all just a bunch of ugly kids with oily skin under oppressive fluorescent lighting.