C) And by never taking “no” for an answer.
This isn’t a typical lady memoir. I appreciate my beauty sleep too much to have crazy “one night in Cabo” stories. I don’t have emo ex-boyfriends to gossip about. And I haven’t been on any quirky drug trips that ended in profound self-realizations. Guess I’ll get busy in those areas for the next book. (Send in the prosecco! That’s alcohol, right?)
There will be video game references galore, and at one point you may say to yourself, “This book might be too nerdy even for ME.” But the heart of my story is that the world opened up for me once I decided to embrace who I am—unapologetically.
My story demonstrates that there’s no better time in history to have a dream and be able to reach an audience with your art. Or just be as weird as you want to be and not have to be ashamed. That lesson’s just as legit.
Between the jokes and dorky illustrations (I’m addicted to Photoshop), I hope you can find a teensy bit of inspiration for your own life—to take risks and use all the tools at your fingertips to get your voice out there while you’re still not a corpse. Be who you are and use this new connected world to embrace it. Because . . .
Okay, turn the page. Let’s get this over with.
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Why I’m Weird
A brief survey of an eccentric, homeschooled childhood.
For the record, I was homeschooled for hippie reasons, not God reasons. And it wasn’t even full hippie. There was no “communal family in an ashram” sort of thing, which is SO disappointing. I’ve always wanted a glamorous messed-up childhood like that. Raised without clocks. Around kids named Justice League and Feather. Winona Ryder had that, right? She’s so pretty.
Nope, I had a middle-class hippie upbringing. More hippie-adjacent than anything. We recycled before it was cool and wore “Save the Whales” T-shirts and . . . that’s about it. Oh, and my mom fed us carob instead of chocolate and gave us vitamins that made our breath smell weird. But since my brother and I weren’t around other kids that often, we didn’t realize the breath thing until way later. (Pro tip: put the pills in the freezer to avoid vitamin B mouth stink.)
Before being educated at home (i.e., sequestered in social isolation for nearly a decade), I went to a few different elementary schools from the ages of five to seven. There, I learned several important things about myself:
A) If a boy has an accent, I will fall in love with him. If he has an accent and glasses, I will want to marry him. (That means you, Charlie with the Scottish brogue from preschool. You could have had all of me. Fool.)
B) I am never going to be passionate about only one subject, unless you count “teacher’s suck-a-butt” as a category. I learned early in life that being perfect is a HIT with adults. Who gave special gifts to her kindergarten teacher Miss Julie on every holiday, including Presidents’ Day, even though it technically isn’t a gift holiday? This girl!
C) I will never be the popular one. That’s for girls who wear hair bows that match their dresses and hang out with other girls who wear hair bows that match their dresses. Back in the late ’80s, the hair bow was the rich girl’s scrunchie. I had no hair bows or scrunchies because we were poor and shopped at Goodwill, and my mom cut my hair in the shape of a salad bowl.
Lastly:
D) The popular girls would never acknowledge that I was destined for respect and high status, so I was happy to go, “Screw those chicks!” and become the leader of the class misfits. Albino boy? Girl with lisp? The “slow one”? Join my gang! We’ll show the cute bow-girls how much more fun it is to play dodgeball when you’re not worried about that expensive outfit that makes you look all rich and adorable! (Not that I was jealous.)
Me and my first-grade group were TOTAL Breakfast Club: Zoe from Puerto Rico, who owned a guinea pig; Marcus with curly red hair, who always smelled like milk; and Megan with the walleye, who I didn’t really want to spend time with, but my mom made me, and then the kid grew on me because she always seemed delighted by my company.
We’d hang out in the corner of the homeroom, the corner of the playground, the . . . generally we hid in corners, defying everyone with our independence and stuff. Like sharing our sticker books amongst ourselves only. (Those popular bitches never saw my Pegasus page, and it was EPIC.) Once, we even stood at the back fence of the school grounds, near the freeway access road, and made the “honk” noise at passing trucks, even though it was technically against the rules. Oooh! Since I had an “in” with the teachers, I told my crew, with all the sincerity of Gregory Peck leading a platoon into a World War II battle, “Don’t worry, guys. I’ve got your backs.” Being a leader was nerve-wracking, but with responsibility comes great admiration.