I am not a perfect adult and I was not a perfect teen. Close. Perfect-ish.
I sometimes had an attitude, and frankly still do with my parents occasionally. I attribute this to knowing I am unconditionally loved by them, so it's okay to be my least charming self. (You're welcome Mom and Dad.) I procrastinated. I drank before I was 21. I threw horrible crying tantrums hating every piece of clothing I owned, leaving everything scattered on my floor at least a few times a week. I don't think I made my bed even once while I lived at home, and as you will read later in this book, I had a bit of a popsicle addiction, which included leaving the remaining sticks all over the house. But I am very pleased to report that as a 30-year-old woman, ...
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