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3.78 AVERAGE
3.78 AVERAGE
funny
reflective
medium-paced
emotional
funny
inspiring
reflective
fast-paced
Content Warnings
Moderate: Miscarriage, Pregnancy
emotional
fast-paced
This is a weird one because I think the author is a very lovely, kind woman, but I didn't feel engrossed in the book. I never felt absorbed in the writing. It took me a while to finish the book because it didn't hold my interest.
emotional
reflective
medium-paced
funny
hopeful
fast-paced
emotional
funny
hopeful
medium-paced
lighthearted
relaxing
medium-paced
funny
hopeful
inspiring
lighthearted
reflective
2.25/5
Excerpts:
When I was little I used to worry that I might be the Messiah. I really didn’t want to be the Messiah because:
a) I’m bad at public speaking and I thought being the Messiah would probably involve a lot of that.
b) Germs make me very anxious and so I definitely don’t want to touch sick people and I really don’t want them to touch me.
c) I have a very low pain threshold and I can’t help feeling that being the Messiah is going to end badly.
d) My frizzy hair would not work well in stained glass. Stained glass is a very unflattering medium.
e) I’m not sure about Eternal Life. It seems like life is long enough already.
*****
I’m told I dress like someone whose best clothes are in the wash.
*****
I discovered that if you’re a shy woman who doesn’t say much but smiles a lot, people project onto you who they think you are or who they want you to be. This makes going on dates doubly interesting/terrifying. I would not only be finding out who they were, I would be finding out who they had decided I was. And the problem was, however much I did or didn’t like them, I never liked their version of me.
*****
It was fantastic to be able to write for such brilliant, funny women, but there was such fear from the men at the station that men might not watch or like the show, that we were encouraged to avoid writing about “women’s subjects” or doing sketches that might put male viewers off. We also had a strict swearing quota. We were allowed a certain number of “fucks” per series. One week, we blew all our swear words in one sketch so that the following week, when we wanted to say “motherfucker,” we were told we had gone over our allotted swear word rations. We begged to be able to say “motherfucker.” It went to increasingly important departments for a decision on whether we could say “motherfucker.” Finally, the answer was given. We couldn’t say “motherfucker” but they would allow us to say “sisterfucker.” It’s interesting that when they looked at the word “motherfucker,” they decided the part that was offensive was “mother.” What a bunch of sisterfuckers.
*****
Worse than the pain in my hair follicles was the pain inside. Where was it? My brain? My heart? My soul? I didn’t know where it was, just that it was unbearable.
The pain continued to get worse. If it had been in a physical part of my body, I would have gone to the doctor, I would have called an ambulance, I would have gone to the ER. But it was inside. I was an inside-out tornado. A swirling turmoil of destruction on the inside, but totally calm outside.
I stood on the Tube and stared at the emergency cord. Could I pull it for an existential crisis? I looked around at my fellow passengers and thought that wouldn’t be a good idea.
Excerpts:
When I was little I used to worry that I might be the Messiah. I really didn’t want to be the Messiah because:
a) I’m bad at public speaking and I thought being the Messiah would probably involve a lot of that.
b) Germs make me very anxious and so I definitely don’t want to touch sick people and I really don’t want them to touch me.
c) I have a very low pain threshold and I can’t help feeling that being the Messiah is going to end badly.
d) My frizzy hair would not work well in stained glass. Stained glass is a very unflattering medium.
e) I’m not sure about Eternal Life. It seems like life is long enough already.
*****
I’m told I dress like someone whose best clothes are in the wash.
*****
I discovered that if you’re a shy woman who doesn’t say much but smiles a lot, people project onto you who they think you are or who they want you to be. This makes going on dates doubly interesting/terrifying. I would not only be finding out who they were, I would be finding out who they had decided I was. And the problem was, however much I did or didn’t like them, I never liked their version of me.
*****
It was fantastic to be able to write for such brilliant, funny women, but there was such fear from the men at the station that men might not watch or like the show, that we were encouraged to avoid writing about “women’s subjects” or doing sketches that might put male viewers off. We also had a strict swearing quota. We were allowed a certain number of “fucks” per series. One week, we blew all our swear words in one sketch so that the following week, when we wanted to say “motherfucker,” we were told we had gone over our allotted swear word rations. We begged to be able to say “motherfucker.” It went to increasingly important departments for a decision on whether we could say “motherfucker.” Finally, the answer was given. We couldn’t say “motherfucker” but they would allow us to say “sisterfucker.” It’s interesting that when they looked at the word “motherfucker,” they decided the part that was offensive was “mother.” What a bunch of sisterfuckers.
*****
Worse than the pain in my hair follicles was the pain inside. Where was it? My brain? My heart? My soul? I didn’t know where it was, just that it was unbearable.
The pain continued to get worse. If it had been in a physical part of my body, I would have gone to the doctor, I would have called an ambulance, I would have gone to the ER. But it was inside. I was an inside-out tornado. A swirling turmoil of destruction on the inside, but totally calm outside.
I stood on the Tube and stared at the emergency cord. Could I pull it for an existential crisis? I looked around at my fellow passengers and thought that wouldn’t be a good idea.