My Myspace page becomes a giant collage depicting my undeniable love for Dana and Tegan and Sara. I’m not hiding anything. In fact, I think I’m making it pretty impossible for anyone who knows me to say, “that girl MUST be straight.”
Even in the world of don’t-offend parenting, I got as far as I did because I tell the fucking truth. I might have the only parenting book to regularly drop the f-bomb. My entire brand is built on being not-blend-in-able.
I was shell-shocked enough from seeing Magnus’s collection of P-cars online, and now I am standing in his incredible goth-rock palace with a bunch of Porsche execs.
“Everybody Knows This Is Nowhere” meant something specific for Young, in a strange city where the weather never changes, dreaming of a bit of a breeze that never seemed to come.
It’s Molly’s ‘go to hell’ attitude flowing through me when I tell off Rachel’s grandfather for misgendering her in public and refusing to accept her — for putting conditions on his love.
They let him die. They left a man without his father, a wife without her husband, and Amy and me without our Grandaddy Lee. It’s their fault he’s gone.
When I turn 17, I do my first open mic at a coffee shop near my hometown in Connecticut. White people, dim lighting, and overpriced coffee. Terrifying.
Without even intending it, I start to walk away from my religion. It is not a pleasant journey. I feel alone. I can’t tell anyone because everyone I know believes in God. I am an outcast. I am an X-Man.
“He walked over and poured a scotch and water. He walked into the bedroom with it, took off his shirt, pants, shoes, stockings. In his shorts he went to bed with the drink. It was 15 minutes to noon. No ambition, no talent, no chance.”
I know there are depressed people who are tired all the time and ones who cut themselves and ones who may or may not think about ending it. But in pop culture, there is only one kind of OCD, and Adrian Monk is just the latest version.
He pleads with God for answers — something to ease Charlotte’s suffering. His fingers drum nervously on the wheel as he pulls up to the church. He sits for a minute. Finally, he kills the engine.
See, this way, I can prove I’m smart — an urgent need as I continue to fail spectacularly in French or algebra. I can prove it, in particular, to my Dad. Beat him at his own game, make him proud — it’s flawless logic, no?
I can learn by listening. Listening and Listening and more Listening until eventually my parents insist that I take my headphones off and “be present” or get grounded.
I’m not Arya. I’m Sansa. Many GRRM readers hate her; she’s stupid and naive. She is used as a pawn by everyone. But I understand and love Sansa deeply, because her story is my own.
She takes hold of her ebony Queen. I can’t help but admire the piece, its intricate details standing out against the contrasting background of her pale skin. “I can’t believe you gave up your advantage,” she says. She knew what I was going to do before I did it. It’s like she can see my future. But I can’t see hers.
