In college, I always had a story about a boy.

Upon meeting someone new, I would test the waters—do they like hearing my stories of a boy? or do they hold blank stares as I ran into nothingness?

I always imagine that many people’s eyes glazed over as I recounted the many incidents of:

And so on…

When I was 21, I wrote a pseudo-autobiography. At the time, I thought it was the greatest achievement ever. But now looking back (and someone else who generously and reluctantly read it), it was full of the boys. The way a boy insulted me. The way a boy made me happy. The way a boy made me angry…angsty…irritated…furious…etc.

And in some way, I do find it boring. My 21 year old self would disagree, but when reading memoirs, I am curious more about why people make certain choices in life than who they met. I am not that interested in the awkwardness and rejection of relationships. It’s the problem-solving moments that capture my attention.

There was a short story about the way I dealt with the Heathers. The girls who made fun of me when I was 11 and 12 and how I fought back with my sister’s help. Then there’s another short story about my grandfather’s second wife. And the story about me figuring out to speak…