By the way, I’m not full of shit.

If you’re reading these essays wondering, “How does she come up with this shit?”—I didn’t have to come up with most of it. I had to live it. Which was frankly inconvenient.

A lot of these pieces were written in hotel rooms and rental cars, while I was homeless. I didn’t have a home, let alone a fucking writing room.

Now I write standing on one foot in the bathroom, with my head leaning against the wall. Usually, the whole thing comes out in less than fourteen minutes. Then I reread it, and my brain supplies the punctuation I never actually put there. I know what I mean. You’re wondering what the fuck I’m talking about.

So that’s the process. Very prestigious. Very literary.

My right knee would like a mention in the acknowledgments.

And this is the original Anxiety Girl. She started on a bar napkin.