Fourteen.

I was the most terrible fourteen-year-old alive.

Proof postive: A letter to my Grandmother in 1990.

Martha.

Martha^**: Do you remember Simon^*?
Me: Ugh. Yes. That guy’s the worst.
Martha: He’s dead.
Me: … You couldn’t have led with that?!?

*Not his real name.

** Her real name.

YeahNo.

I say ‘Yeah, No’ to you, Perpetual Adolescence. To you, Old Ben Stiller. To you, Rhys Ifans Whose Fame Is A Mystery To Me. To you, Noah Baumbach (who I’m pretty sure got stoned, watched Singles and Half Nelson and then wrote this). To you, Pretty Girl Still Seeking Solace in Arms Too Small to Hold the Pain You Feel and Too Weak to Want to.