The first chapter from my new book, An Interesting Woman, to be published early next year.
The tragedy of my life is that, in the end, it is my life and not some sweeping Russian novel. I bet they have better clothes than me in those books, too.
I wasn’t always so angry at the world. In fact, my earliest memories were rather good. Maybe that’s why I’m so angry. My adulthood isn’t living up to the previously set standard. That’s not to say there weren’t, shall we say, warped aspects to my youth. In fact, the only advice I recall ever receiving from my father was when he announced his wish that I not learn math “on the streets”. Learning of more worldly matters, such as sex and drugs, was something he insisted I waste time on after school for he was no good at explaining such things having been rather a prude and a bore most of his life. In my efforts to rebel, as any pugnacious child would do, I studied math at home and “worldly matters” during my classes. My attendance was perfect, my aptitude high and my dismissal from public education eminent which occurred promptly after my thirteenth birthday by request of the administrators and PTA due to my “ill effects” on the other children. My removal from the public education system ensured that I never received schooling in chemistry, western literature nor class ditching. I regret my lack of shop classes yet society may be grateful for that missed opportunity.