You bump into your ex that you haven’t seen or spoken to for a while. In some versions of this story that I’ve heard time and time again, the text is taken as a sign that 1) they haven’t moved on as much as they thought and 2) that it means that they’re destined to be together, hence they end up shagging.
You’ve spent months moving on with your life and are just getting to a place where you’re feeling good about you, are considering dating, and are even feeling confident enough to hang out with them and chat for a while. It’s easy when you’re inclined to engage in the type of introspection that yields a self-blame perspective, to wonder if you have a sign on your forehead or are incredibly unlucky, or are essentially communicating the ‘truth’ about yourself without you realising.
They chance their arm, which actually may be as natural as breathing to them, so it may not always be a premeditated, well thought out plan that they’re cooking up.
It’s more likely that they’re in the moment, being reactive and running off their instincts.
Now, in this New York Times bestselling debut collection written in her witty and self-deprecating voice, Rae covers everything from cybersexing in the early days of the Internet to deflecting unsolicited comments on weight gain, from navigating the perils of eating out alone and public displays of affection to learning to accept yourself—natural hair and all.
The Misadventures of Awkward Black Girl is a book no one—awkward or cool, black, white, or other—will want to miss.
—were becoming extinct, and rightfully so, since the data on those things could be lost with the smudge of a finger. And, perhaps most valuable of all, I could actually talk to boys. Before my parents caught wind of frightening news reports of child predators, I spent my days and after-school evenings in chat rooms, learning to speed read, talking to kids my age who were also ahead of the curve.
And since my computer took only the “hard” disks, my game choices were limited to nerdy learning games and text-based adventure games with no visuals. Or pedophiles, who were remarkably creative and persistent in their forbidden pursuit.
Before he decamped for college, I would spend hours at a time watching him type the commands into MS-DOS that would transport us to the magical kingdom of Sierra’s King’s Quest VI on our IBM.But the computer in my room paled in comparison to the one downstairs, in the basement. Because of AOL, I had imaginary friends that weren’t imaginary.For one thing, the large floppy disks—I think they were actually called hard disks, what the f%4# 90s? The other reason my computer wasn’t a huge triumph for my preteen self-discovery was because it lacked a modem, which meant no dial-up internet for me. I had elaborate conversations devoid of awkward silences.Pedos actually had it made in the mid-nineties, before the media exposed them. My friends at school, other fifth graders, didn’t seem to relate when I mentioned “chat rooms” and “profiles” or when I sang along to the dial-up internet song I made up in my head.It seemed that, for a brief moment, only I was privy to this alternate American universe that lived online.