(A house-size cricket might not sound scary, but when it speaks in a robot voice and knows your middle name, it is terrifying.) Bridget Jones’s Diary was playing on the boxy television on top of the dresser, and I’d watched a good portion of the movie before she even noticed me at the foot of her bed. My mother taught me the golden rule of dating before I even hit the second grade.Īt the ripe age of seven, I’d snuck into her room after having a nightmare. “I’m just a girl, standing in front of a boy, asking him to love her.” He would’ve loved the Stella’s scene and remembered the ketchup. Thank you for letting me read under the blankets when I should’ve been sleeping.Īnd for my beloved dad, who saw the cover but never got to read the book. For my amazing mom, who’s always been my biggest fan, harshest critic, and the woman single-handedly responsible for my distrust of those asshats in the shoe industry.
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