The Harm In Asking: My Clumsy Encounters With The Human Race - Plot & Excerpts
It’s terribly unflattering, but my mother insists on keeping it up. “It’s not that you look cute,” she says. “It’s just that you look happy.” This much is true. My smile demonstrates the sort of enthusiasm commonly associated with Mormons or Down syndrome. The waistband of my jeans is visible because the way I wore them at the time made it more of a nipple-band, really, than anything relating to a waist. As for my cheeks, they look fat enough to sit on. Throughout my adolescence, I saw this version of myself more than any other. It left me with the overarching sense that I could stand for some roughening up. I didn’t want an authentically challenging experience; I wanted a veneer of coolness, a lick of the mysterious about me. The need had fueled my Sapphic desire for years, and as that desire waxed and waned, I searched for a workable substitute. Something that would project a dark side lurking just below the surface. Which was ironic, actually, because I do have a dark side.
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