![]() ![]() I tried to casually insert a picture of myself onstage wearing a miniskirt and an electric guitar into his hand. In the picture I’m also eating a bag of Doritos, helpless laughter exploding through my big, nacho‐cheesy smile. ![]() To my great frustration, however, he kept digging deep into the bowl, oblivious to my offerings, and ended up pulling out a picture of me at around age sixteen, standing in my friend’s driveway with ratty long hair, twiggy arms, not a breast yet in sight, wearing a blue T‐shirt that said to a teNNIs player, loVe meaNs NothING. What I was really doing was sneaking any picture where I looked sexy or cool or world‐travel‐y to the top of the pile so he’d be sure to see it. I’d dumped a couple of hundred pictures from various parts of my life in there, and while we sat and drank beers and sifted through them, I was actually only fake‐sifting through them. I remember being in my twenties and hanging out in my Manhattan apartment with my boyfriend at the time, looking through a giant bowlful of photographs that I kept on a table in my living room. ![]()
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