I once had a job as a porn reviewer. It was, in all honesty, the most boring job I have ever had, and I quit after a week. There’s only so many ways to describe genitalia.
Due to an insanely sheltered high school experience, I didn’t have my first proper kiss until I was 18. It was at a house party thrown by a friend. The guy was 25, told me he was a pro golfer, and was so drunk that he passed out while we were making out, fell off the deck, and hit his head on a brick.
I am not making this up.
Once he came to, he tried to tell everyone that I’d punched him. This pretty much set the tone for my entire love life.
For most of my childhood, I was convinced that anyone touching my skin could read my mind.
When I was about 11, I sent a handwritten letter to all the publishers I could find addresses for, asking them if they would please consider publishing the novel I was writing. Several of them wrote back, which was really quite nice of them.
The “novel” in question was, I think, a horror story about a guy named Smith and a beach house. I’m pretty sure it even had a sex scene — although, since I had a copy of ‘Why Was I Adopted?’ instead of ‘Where Did I Come From?’, at the time I was still missing some key details on the mechanics.
I first met my birth-mother when I was two. Despite knowing her my entire life, it took me until I was 15 to realise that I must also have a father. It occurred to me on my Nana’s driveway, as I was checking her mail. I was thinking about how, technically, Brad Pitt was old enough to be my dad.
I didn’t get my driver’s licence until I was 25. In my first three months of having a car, I drove into three different stationary objects. I don’t mean that I nudged a stray recycling bin or clipped the curb — I wrapped my passenger side around a pole in a parking garage. And once I’d done it, I decided the fastest way to get out of it was just to keep going. So I accelerated, and crumpled the entire left side of my car. Part of me was relieved that at least this hid where I’d run into the lip of a ramp the week before.
I wrote my next car off when I rear-ended someone on the motorway while trying to charge my iPod off my laptop.
My insurance is very expensive.
As a kid, I put a lot of effort into calculating how many wrong answers to give during standardised tests. I was terrified of being found out and made to skip a year, which seemed to me like being punished for retaining information.
I was also aware pretty early of the difference between book smart and street smart, and thought that the fact that I lost things and forgot to get off buses and thought I could fly should really trump being able to produce dates and numbers on request. I felt guilty when adults praised me for being smart — it was something I was, not anything I did — they were essentially congratulating me on being lazy.
This morning, the oil light went on in my car. Once again, at almost 28, I have no idea how to live like an adult. Can I deal with this myself? Do I take my car somewhere? How much will it cost? Will my car eventually cease to run while I’m trying to figure it out? It’s a mystery! Yesterday I had to ask google whether it was okay to do yoga after giving blood. Google reminded me that I still have very little of what my mother calls nous.