I Like You Just the Way I Am: Stories About Me and Some Other People
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
Hi, I'm Jenny Mollen, an actress and writer living in Los Angeles. I'm also a wife, married to someone more famous than me, which is especially annoying because all the free clothing he gets never come in a size small.
This is my book, an assortment of stories about not doing the right thing. Yes, it's about me. But it's also about women, who all come in two types: those that are totally batshit crazy, and those that are liars. It's a book about acting on impulses, plotting elaborate hoaxes, and refusing to acknowledge boundaries in any form. Like hiding in the trunk of a car to get a look at the girl who used to fuck my husband. Or pretending to have a seizure on a red-eye to New York in order to explain why my dog is balls-deep in a bag of Pirates' Booty burrowed in the lap of a sleeping child.
Life is too short for bullshit. I'm 33 and my tits drop half an inch a year. Someday very soon, ladies, you and I are going to be whatever fetish comes after "cougar," unable to wear shirts without sleeves, and full of cell phone cancer. It is our obligation to be honest with ourselves about who we really are and what we really want. Which more often than not is someone else's email password.
So let's embrace it. I Like You Just the Way I Am is a book about taking the high road―as long as it intersects with the train tracks my ex-boyfriend is tied to.
Teets was offended but too gentlemanly to argue. Once we were midair, I reclined my seat, popped an Ambien, and pulled Teets out of his carrier by his head like I was delivering a baby. Teets settled happily into my lap after taking a moment to passive-aggressively step over Jason’s ball sack. Jason scowled at me, but he held back any objection. Natalie Portman was about to tell Ashton Kutcher she wanted to be Friends with Benefits when I passed out. Roughly four and a half hours later, I woke
helped me sustain a handful of decent female relationships. None of which look anything like the unconditional bonds I see women having in TV and film, partly because women aren’t that simple, and partly because everyone’s love is conditional. The reality is—and I hate to be the bearer of bad news, here—even your best girlfriends can’t fucking stand you. It’s not your fault. You just aren’t them; ergo, you have issues, issues that could be solved if you just heeded their advice and became
type of hot mess who instead of sleeping in her bed usually just passed out on a pile of hangers and shoes. Ruthie and Roxy were sisters. They lived across the hall from Amanda and me when we tried living together for a year. They were homebodies, partly because their third roommate was a three-foot-tall homegrown cannabis plant. Ruthie was blond like Amanda, with big Texas hair made bigger by Jessica Simpson clip-ins. Roxy was five years older. She was the type of girl you’d expect to meet on a
of the Casey Anthony trial and coverage of her daughter’s gruesome death was inescapable. In between updates on the young mother’s murder trial, Veronica would tune in to other equally disconcerting programs like Unsolved Mysteries, Dateline, and the eleven o’clock news. For a neurotic mess like me, Veronica was possibly the worst houseguest I could have. But despite my desire to tame my inner scaredy-cat, I couldn’t help but want to know every last detail about any and all psychotic events going
about boys. She was almost too appropriate to be real, and because of that I’d convinced myself she was a sex maniac. Uncomfortable with the attention, Pamela steered the phone call back on track. “Stan Wylan liked your script and wants to meet you.” The loud thumping of Pamela’s Tuesday night sex rave faded away as a door shut behind her. I stopped for a second, collecting my thoughts, then let out a shriek of excitement. Leanne explained that if I liked and felt I could incorporate Wylan’s