As a general rule, I often don’t read memoirs. Typically, I find them incredibly cheesy and mostly stupid. I have no sentimental bones in my body. None. (That’s a genetic malfunction courtesy of my father, in case you were wondering.)
That being said, this week on my public transportation experience, I decided on my memoir title. Brace yourself.
I plan to call it: “Searching for my deodorant and other stories”.
It all started this last week when I lost my deodorant. It was there one day, gone the next. I woke up, started getting ready–and alas, my deodorant was missing. I had to make a choice. Keep searching for my deodorant and be late for work; Not wear deodorant to work; or steal my sister’s. So, I did the only logical thing a girl can do in that situation, I went without.
Calm down, I’m only joking.
I stole my sister’s. TMI, right? (S0rry, Allie.) (In my defense, it really was the only solution. What else can a girl do at 5:18 am? Nada.)
Also, for the record, I searched again after work and still couldn’t find it. I have no idea nearly a week later where it went. It probably ran off with George Wickham or something. But, don’t be too concerned–I bought some more.
Losing your deodorant is kind of a big deal. Without it, life literally stinks. (See the public transit of Europe during the summer.)
But that’s beside the point. After that, I decided my memoir would be kind of boring. I’d have an entire chapter dedicated to public transportation. A segment on the views from the train, the man on heroin who offered me one million dollars and a hug, a segment on the time my bus hit a garbage truck, the 3 separate times I was almost hit by a bus.
I’d probably have to have a chapter on Harry Potter. I mean, I practically work for the Ministry of Magic.
There might be a chapter about how being a blogger changed my life. Maybe there’d be a chapter called “Hey girl” dedicated to my terrible dating stories.
I might have a whole chapter dedicated to my life in twitter updates or facebook statuses or instagram pics. It’s just so hard to decide how to write this most important piece of literature.
All in all, it might be kind of long. And disjointed. And not-coherent. But hey, maybe Oprah’d choose it for her book club?
What do you think? Would you read it? What would you call your memoir?