The Harm in Asking: My Clumsy Encounters With the Human Race by Sara Barron

The Harm in Asking: My Clumsy Encounters With the Human Race by Sara Barron

Author:Sara Barron
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: Humor, Form, Personal Memoirs, Biography & Autobiography, Essays, Women
ISBN: 0307720705
Publisher: Random House LLC
Published: 2014-03-25T04:00:00+00:00


WHERE WAS IT all coming from? Such boldness! Such aggression! I guess my recent exposure to so much articulately expressed female anger had had its positive effect. And now here I was: standing on the shoulders of giants. On the shoulders of my giants. Of Tracy, and of Tori. Of Lisa, and of Sarah, too.

I MISSED MY job after losing it. I missed Olaf, my potatoes, and the overall sense of camaraderie. I felt the sting of these losses but I also recovered quickly from them. I was mostly just happy not to have to work. I had lost my job one week before I was due back at high school, and was grateful for the extra time in which to relax, as well as for the wealth of new music I’d discovered. I put my personal knack for lyric memorization to good use, singing aloud whenever location permitted: in my bed, in the shower. On long, private walks to the beach. I sang so I would not forget. When finally my last Bino’s BBQ paycheck arrived, I used it to purchase the albums on which all my favorite songs appeared. When Hanukkah rolled around, I requested a cable subscription, promising my parents that if they bought it for me, it would preclude them from further present requests for a minimum of six months.

“Make it a year,” said my mom.

“Agreed,” I said, and as a woman of my word, did not complain when, the following May, I turned seventeen and received a jar of Clausen pickles.

Impressed by the trustworthy teen I’d become, the universe gifted unto me a woman by the name of Alanis Morissette.

She wrote a song called “You Oughta Know.”

The amount I enjoyed “You Oughta Know”—the sheer number of hours I spent seductively pressing my hands against the full-length mirror in my bedroom while singing its lyrics at myself with a zeal to suggest I’d suffered a very real mental breakdown—cannot be overstated.

——



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