I'm A Summer Baby, So I Usually

Because, Ten-year-olds Of The World, You Shouldn't Believe What Your Teachers Tell You About The Beauty And Specialness And Uniqueness Of You. Or, Believe It, Little Snowflake, But Know It Won't Make A Bit Of Difference Until After Puberty. It's Newton's Lost Law: Anything That Makes You Unique Later Will Get Your Chocolate Milk Stolen And Your Eye Blackened As A Kid. Won't It, Sebastian? Oh, Yes, It Will, My Little Mandarin Chinese-learning, Poe-reciting, High-top-wearing Friend. God Bless You, Wherever You Are.

The Nursery Rhyme Ends When A Spider Comes Along And Frightens Miss Muffet Straight Off Her Tuffet. I Have Wondered About What Kind Of Lesson This Is For A Young Girl. If You're Eating Your Curds And Whey And A Spider Comes Along, I Don't Think There's Anything Wrong With Picking Up A Newspaper, Smashing It, And Going Back To Your Breakfast.

Suburbia Is Too Close To The Country To Have Anything Real To Do And Too Close To The City To Admit You Have Nothing Real To Do.

I Have Come To Understand Myself As More Of A New York Writer, Or More Of A Woman Writer, But I Don't Feel Like That While I'm Writing. But I Think That Most New Yorkers Would Object To Calling Me A New Yorker. I Didn't Grow Up Here.

We All Deserve To Be Congratulated, But Sadly That Would Mean There's No One Left To Do The Congratulating.