Why Girls Are Weird Read Online Free PDF Page B

help. Pillow Boyfriend is way too mushy, and Blanket Boy makes me sweat.
    When will I be good enough to be chosen? What do I get to choose? Why does everyone go away?
    Weddings bring out the worst in me. All of this paranoia is due to my friend’s announcement. I feel silly for getting this upset. When will I be as strong as I give myself credit for? When will I actually feel as independent as I act? Weddings make me hate myself as I count down the days, working to get “pretty enough” to be seen at the wedding, attractive enough to tolerate dancing in front of old friends and ex-lovers. Once I’m at the reception I get mushy and sad, drink way too much, and convince myself that nobody will ever love me and I’ll never be as happy as everyone else. It’s not pretty, it’s not healthy, but it’s all a part of being a woman. It’s a cycle I’ve got down to a science.
    Love until later,
    Anna K

000007.
    Mom called the next night. She was trying to remember which baby-sitter used to borrow our Stephen King books because she was missing her copy of Cujo . My mom likes to keep all of her Stephen King books in a place where she can see them in the living room because she thinks they have the power to move at night, cursing her belongings and plotting her ultimate demise.
    This is sort of my fault. One day I put a magnet inside the pages of Mom’s paperback copy of Salem’s Lot and I made it move along the kitchen table as I pretended to do my homework. I acted like it was freaking me out. I convinced her that she could control the evil by wishing it away and keeping an eye on it. I did it on and off for about a month. Now she makes sure that the Stephen King books are in her sight at all times. I’m a horrible person.
    This Cujo situation had the potential to become a very bad thing, so I made a mental note to buy a new copy to slip into her bookcase the next time I went to visit. My parents live in Hartford, Connecticut. Of all the places my parents thought they’d end up living, Hartford was probably last on the list. It’s boring, but in a “We’re done making a family” sort of way that agrees with them. Dad works and Mom organizes rooms to minimize their evil potential. They must enjoy the monotony of Hartford after all the moving around we did when I was young. Dad sometimes got transferred twice a year, which meant that by the time I reached my senior year of high school, I’d gone to over fifteen different schools. Living in the same house for more than a year must be a pleasure for them.
    I live in Austin because I went to college here. I got a degree in acting. I did a few plays once I graduated. I found myself working harder and harder, never feeling like I had accomplished anything. I hated performing for eight people. So I quit. I would be lying if I said I didn’t miss it.
    I think Mom likes telling people that her daughter is an actress. She still uses the word actress, even though most people say “actor” now. She also refers to all of my shows as “little plays.” She asks about my shows and I make up plays that don’t exist. It’s easier than admitting I have no idea what I am doing or where I am going. The actor’s struggle is much nobler than the haze of postcollege slack.
    After the Cujo thing had been settled, we were free to go through the rest of our phone routine.
    â€œAre you doing any little plays right now?” she asked me.
    â€œYeah, Mom.”
    â€œWhat’s this one called?”
    â€œMore Jock Than Titty.”
    I heard my mother suck on her teeth. “That sounds dirty.”
    â€œI’m not naked in it. Other people are, though. It’s about a boy who tries to become a member of the dance team and the other girls won’t let him unless he dresses like a girl.”
    â€œI don’t think I can make it down to see that play.”
    Mom asks, I describe a play