Dunham’s new memoir, Not That Kind of Girl: A Young Woman Tells You What She’s “Learned” (Random House, 2014), is equal parts horrifying and hilarious.
“I fell,” said Mom on our semi-weekly phone call. Her voice strained as if in pain and sounded thick as if I had awakened her from sleep. “I’m okay. It’s nothing.”
I didn’t notice them gathering behind me until I heard a chorus of “Excuse me!” Five shiny-faced Japanese schoolchildren, aged perhaps ten or eleven, had arranged themselves in a neat line.
I feel especially put together because I am wearing an outfit; I bought all three pieces at the same time, indicating my financial stability and dedication to appearance.
Heart pounding, I curled into a ball and let my arms absorb the blows aimed at my face until a security guard forced his way to me and dragged me out of the melee.