Nicole Steinberg: Talking to Girls About the Good  

  Ol’ Number-Two Taboo

Every day I wage a good Google fight against the other Nicole Steinbergs: the graphic designer, the soccer player, the dental hygienist. I pet the collar of my coat like a bristling cat. Even my clothes want to attack. I’m the only real me and the only real things about me are the hairs I pull out of my sink each morning; the sunrise-blank scalp they leave behind; my daily tally of Weight Watchers points; mosquitos and their gross, astrological influence over my life. The only real thing about me is the afternoon I drank twelve mixed-berry juice boxes and the unhappy outcome, faint taste of Kaopectate still spackled between my teeth. Rinsed clean with liquid sugar death, I skirt the yawn of soft demands. My best quality is that I’m full of shit and if you are full of shit I will know.



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