Once, when I was five, I was at an art opening talking to a fabulous drunken British lady.

My earliest memory of sexual arousal is watching Jackie Earle Haley as Kelly Leak in Bad News Bears.

One night I put on a nightgown, stepped onto the porch, looked up at the moon, and said, 'Who am I?'

Barbie’s disfigured. It’s OK to play with her just as long as you keep that in mind.

A year later I have to change my screen name because a boy at school, a massive hairy boy with a face like a Picasso painting, sends me an email saying he’s going to rape me and cover me in barbecue sauce.

I was being desexualized in slow motion, becoming a teddy bear with breasts.

I learned to masturbate the summer after third grade.

Intercourse felt, often, like shoving a loofah into a Mason jar.

I am hot. I am hungry for a snack. But mostly, I am alone.

I was sure I had already broken my hymen in high school while crawling over a fence in Brooklyn in pursuit of a cat that didn’t want to be rescued.

I have the nagging sense that my true friends are waiting for me beyond college, unusual women whose ambitions are as big as their past transgressions, whose hair is piled high, dramatic like topiaries at Versailles, and who never, ever say 'too much information' when you mention a sex dream you had about your father.

My mother and I have a massive fight when I choose to wear a banana-printed belly shirt and pink leggings to the Vatican.