I have never been one to read self-help books. In my 26 years of living, I’ve bought two; one was for school and the other was a flat surface I used to construct marijuana cigarettes on. Nothing against these types of books, of course. I just have yet to find How-To: Life for the Awkward Gal Who Overanalyzes Everything. Until I do, I’ll leave what I can here and you’re welcome to use the help at your leisure. If the aforementioned book never makes it onto the shelves of Barnes and Noble, just remember I said it first. These are the life lessons I made-up out of things that have happened to me. Enjoy.
It was the summer of 2003: I was 13 years old, my mosquito bites were becoming bigger mosquito bites (I’m referring to my tits, though there were many mosquitoes that summer), and the world was in the palm of my pubescent hand. It was my second summer at the Catholic sleep-away camp I would call home for many summers after. This particular summer was important to the girls of Cabin 9. You see, we were the second oldest girls in the entire camp: We stayed-up later, danced longer, and at the end of the session, we got to go on the mystical off-property camping trip to the DLB (Dry Lake Bed). What was so important about this trip was not the campfire; it was not the ghost stories; it wasn’t even the fucking s’mores. No, this was bigger than that. The oldest boy cabin had a tradition of scaring the living shit out of any girls camping in the DLB. But not that night, no sir. The Cabin 9 girls were going to retaliate. That night we were going to rewrite history, as well as learn how to shave our pubes from the way-too-advanced-for-her-age girl, Lauren.
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