I Was Surprised By How Much I

When I Was Nine Years Old, I Wrote A Short Story Called 'how To Build A Snowman,' From Which No Practical Snowperson-crafting Techniques Could Be Gleaned. The Story Was An Assignment For Class And It Featured A Series Of Careful But Meaningless Instructions. Of Course, The Building Of The Snowman Was A Red Herring.

I Don't Really Think Of My Essays As Being About Myself. I Know It Sounds Insane, But I Just Don't Think Of Them As A Memoir. They're Essays; They're Not An Autobiography.

I Was Diagnosed With A Severe Temporal Spatial Deficit, A Learning Disability That Means I Have Zero Spatial Relations Skills. It Was Official: I Was A Genius Trapped In An Idiot's Body.

I Got Out On The Street And Started Crying The Kind Of Hysterical Tears Made Justifiable Only By Turning Off One’s Cell Phone, Putting It To The Ear, And Pretending To Be Told Of A Death In The Family.

I Do Want To Get Married. It's A Nice Idea. Though I Think Husbands Are Like Tattoos--you Should Wait Until You Come Across Something You Want On Your Body For The Rest Of Your Life Instead Of Just Wandering Into A Tattoo Parlor On Some Idle Sunday And Saying, 'i Feel Like I Should Have One Of These Suckers By Now. I'll Take A Thorny Rose And A "mom" Anchor, Please. No, Not That One--the Big One.