When I was younger, life was finite. Beginning, middle, abrupt end. I lived and let life happen to me, unquestioned and undisturbed.

It might have been a moment, or perhaps something that simmered under the surface. I don’t know. But it happened: the door inside me flew open, a gust of wind and chaos, a veritable torrent of questions that I clumsily summed up…


When do I object to being called a girl and insist on being called a woman?
Why do I have such shitty hair?
Will I ever make love or enjoy a glass of wine without thinking about burning in hell?
Why can’t I ever eat just those 10 cheese curls?
When I die, will it hurt?
Why is my butt darker than the rest of me?


I’ll start dieting tomorrow, I swear.




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