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- Kurzbeschreibung"A gutsy, wise memoir-in-essays from a writer praised as 'impossible to put down'"- People
From the author of the genre-bending mega hit Black Wave comes this moving personal essay collection about the trials and triumphs of shedding your vices in order to find yourself.
As an aspiring young writer in San Francisco, Michelle Tea lived in a scuzzy communal house: she drank; she smoked; she snorted anything she got her hands on; she toiled for the minimum wage; she dated men and women, and sometimes both at once. But between hangovers and dead-end jobs, she scrawled in notebooks and organized dive bar poetry readings, working to make her literary dreams a reality.
In How to Grow Up , Tea shares her awkward stumble towards the life of a Bona Fide Grown-Up: healthy, responsible, self-aware, and stable. She writes about passion, about her fraught relationship with money, about adoring Barney's while shopping at thrift stores, about breakups and the fertile ground between relationships, about roommates and rent, and about being superstitious ("why not, it imbues this harsh world of ours with a bit of magic"). At once heartwarming and darkly comic, How to Grow Up proves that the road less traveled may be a difficult one, but if you embrace life's uncertainty and dust yourself off after every screw up, slowly but surely, you just might make it to adulthood.
"Wild, wickedly funny, and refreshingly relevant." - Elle
"This compulsively readable collection is so damn good, you'll tear through the whole thing (and possibly take notes along the way)." -Bustle
- AutorMichelle Tea
- VerlagPenguin Putnam Inc
- Seiten290 Seiten
- Gewicht226 g
- LeseprobeThis excerpt is from an advance uncorrected proof
Copyright © 2015 Michelle Tea
You Deserve This
I chose the apartment because of the persimmon tree outside the bedroom window.
I haven't always selected my residences based on special magical details-more like, if I was lucky to score a room in an apartment that was a cheap-o price, I snagged it. Never mind if people were shooting up between the cars parked outside my door, or if an anal yet ambitious roommate attempted to charge me an hourly rate for the housekeeping she did (true stories). Never mind if a nation of cockroaches scattered when a light flicked on and roommates responded to my horror with a snotty directive to "learn to cohabit peacefully with another species" (true story). Never mind if the shower was a tin can with a floor so rusted that one had to stand upon a milk crate in a pair of Tevas in order to bathe (like everything you will read in this book, true, true, true). This was the landscape of my twenties. I was flat broke and planned on spending the rest of my life as an impoverished writer; cheap rent was a must. I was a little funny-looking, with tattoos sprawling across my body; choppy, home-cut hair that was dyed a color not found in nature; and thrifted clothes that fit strangely and bore many holes and stains. If all this was overlooked and I was permitted entry to a household, it was always in my best interest to grab it, roaches and rotting showers be damned.
In my twenties I spent seven years living in the Blue House, a crumbling Victorian so infamous for its lawlessness and squalor it had its own name, and its name was legend. The rent was ridiculously cheap, cheap enough for even the worst slacker/artist/alcoholic/addict to scrounge it up without having to clean up their lives too much. And speaking of clean-we didn't, as a rule, and we would state this as baldly as possible to new roommates. "You don't clean?" a prospective cohabitant would ask, a bit incredulous.
"Just look around," I would invite them. Cigarette butts covered the floor, mashed there by a shoe, as if it were not a house but a bar after closing, before the cleaning crew came in. The beer cans and bottles rolling into the corners also suggested not a home but a tavern, or alternately, a frat house. Dishes were stacked in the sink, unless they were stacked in the bathtub, where they were piled when the sink stack rose too high. Heaps of trash bags mounded at the top of the stairs, where feng shui practice suggests you have an altar to peacefully greet you as you arrive home
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