“I stayed quiet because I was becoming strongly angry, teenage angry, even, like I’d been personally slighted. It was almost out of my control when I blurted, ‘It doesn’t interest me.’
‘What doesn’t?’ He said, and that made me angry too, because I thought he should have been there with me, thinking like I was thinking.
‘Rehashing my life. Telling “my story.” I would have to talk about how I got started and…. It doesn’t interest me at all. I can’t think of anything more boring.’ I could barely speak for all the anger gathering. Sick of the suggestion that I should purposefully spread out my tired history, which I know so well, for palatable consumption and probably sick too of knowing it all the time, the way everyone knows their own history in every waking moment, like a scent you think you’ve gotten used to just before you catch a whiff of it again.”
— By The Time You Read This