I Write From Real Life. I Am

I Have My Father's Lopsided Mouth. When I Smile, My Lips Slope To One Side. My Doctor Sister Calls It My Cerebral Palsy Mouth. I Am Very Much A Daddy's Girl, And Even Though I Would Rather My Smile Wasn't Crooked, There Is Something Moving For Me About Having A Mouth Exactly Like My Father's.

Her Blog Was Doing Well, With Thousands Of Unique Visitors Each Month, And She Was Earning Good Speaking Fees, And She Had A Fellowship At Princeton And A Relationship With Blaine - "you Are The Absolute Love Of My Life," He'd Written In Her Last Birthday Card - And Yet There Was Cement In Her Soul. It Had Been There For A While, An Early Morning Disease Of Fatigue, Shapeless Desires, Brief Imaginary Glints Of Other Lives She Could Be Living, That Over The Months Melded Into A Piercing Homesickness.

People Have Crushes On Priests All The Time, You Know. It’s Exciting To Have To Deal With God As A Rival.

All Over The World, Girls Are Raised To Be Make Themselves Likeable, To Twist Themselves Into Shapes That Suit Other People. Please Do Not Twist Yourself Into Shapes To Please. Don't Do It. If Someone Likes That Version Of You, That Version Of You That Is False And Holds Back, Then They Actually Just Like That Twisted Shape, And Not You. And The World Is Such A Gloriously Multifaceted, Diverse Place That There Are People In The World Who Will Like You, The Real You, As You Are.

Relaxing Your Hair Is Like Being In Prison. You're Caged In. Your Hair Rules You. You Didn't Go Running With Curt Today Because You Don't Want To Sweat Out This Straightness. You're Always Battling To Make Your Hair Do What It Wasn't Meant To Do.