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I read the Amanda Knox memoir so you don’t have to

My favorite impression of Italy comes from my college roommate, who broke her arm there over winter break in our senior year. Although she returned to New York in high spirits, and ultimately no worse for wear, it was with a humongous cast, the kind of heavy, awkward creation that looked like it came out of a 1950s sitcom, or like she broke her arm playing football with Charlie Brown. Granted, Alyce approached our final semester gamely—I have inspiring photos of her in full costume/party attire/dance regalia carrying that monstrosity of a cast—but I remember thinking at the time, “Note to self: Never let anything bad happen to you in Italy.”

And so it was with this in mind that I approached Waiting to Be Heard, the memoir for which Amanda Knox received a reported $4 million. (Admittedly, I also suspected it would make for an entertaining blog post.)

If you’ve been living under a rock—a rock with no access to Nancy Grace or the Huffington Post—Knox, better known as “Foxy Knoxy,” was charged with the 2007 murder of Meredith Kercher, a British student killed while the two lived together during Knox’s semester abroad in Perugia, Italy. The case, as presented by the prosecution, is a story of sexcapades gone wrong: Knox is said to have tried to initiate some sort of orgy/Satanic sex ritual with Kercher, accompanied by her (Knox’s) boyfriend Raffaele Sollecito, and acquaintance Rudy Guede. When Kercher refused to participate in said sexcapade, Guede raped her, and then Raffaele and Guede held her down while Knox slashed her throat. Knox then returned to her boyfriend’s apartment, woke up the next morning, and “discovered” the body upon returning to her flat.

Fine, The Great Gatsby isn’t as bad as I remembered

Here’s a fun fact: I grew up about 5 miles away from F. Scott Fitzgerald …’s grave, as he is buried in an otherwise nondescript cemetery in Rockville, Maryland, where I went to high school. Fun Fact #2: I never visited his grave, in part because at the time it seemed creepy but mostly because of Fun Fact #3: For the better part of two decades, I have been quietly scornful of Mr. Fitzgerald, because for the better part of two decades I have assumed that I really really did not like The Great Gatsby.

I suppose it started as one of those things that was mildly and inoffensively true, like maybe I hated having to read The Great Gatsby for school, or maybe I got a bad grade on a quiz about The Great Gatsby, or (most likely) I simply decided to dislike it for the mere accomplishment of being contrarian (I mean come on, is it really the best novel of all time?) But for many years, I told myself — and others; believe me, and others — that I didn’t really care for its rich white people plot, or its vapid characters. I suppose I said it so often (as often as The Great Gatsby comes up in daily life) that it became more of a truism than it ever was originally, like swearing you hate yogurt and then realizing one day that you haven’t actually eaten it in 15 years. Long story short, I owed Gatsby a reread, and I may have been a little (a lot) swayed by the prospect of seeing Leonardo DiCaprio play yet another poor scrappy white guy trying to scam his way to success.

When people kill people, does it matter why?

In the wake of our six-billionth national tragedy this month, I keep hearing one question when it comes to Boston bombers Dzhokhar and Tamerlan Tsarneav (whose names I will literally never ever remember how to spell). More than anything, perhaps sometimes even more than outrage, people seem to want to know why: What motivated them? What could have possibly led two otherwise mediocre brothers to set off bombs, to blow up children, and to fuck with Boston.

Indeed, we as Americans (we as humans?) appear keen on filing the Marathon incident away into a pre-determined folder of Why Bad Things Happen. Was it terrorism? Was it politically motivated? Were they lonely and alienated in their non-native country? Were they tired of being asked for donations every time one of their friends ran a 5K? Were they just crazy?

A byproduct of my extremely cynical worldview (on a crocheted pillow, it would boil down to something like “People are awful human beings”) I don’t find myself as preoccupied with the Tsarneav brothers’ motive. Since there is nothing they could say or reveal (rather, that Dzhokhar could say or reveal) that would make me go, “Ohhhh, well that totally makes sense then,” their reasons for wreaking havoc in this country — which never appears to never have treated them with anything worse than apathy — are somehow frivolous to me.

Taking it a step further, I sometimes feel that attempting to publicize their justifications for the bombing does little except give those justifications undeserved exposure. Yes, I suppose I’d like to know whether they were linked to a broader group with additional targets, but then again maybe not. Maybe some part of me would like to trust that the authorities will suss that out, and leave the rest of us to forget the name Tsarneav post-haste, to drop the duo into the bucket of Stupid Awful Idiots Who Did Terrible Things But Otherwise Don’t Matter, not the bucket of Terrorists Whose Ideology We’ll Talk About for Decades to Come and Who Have Basically Defined Our Foreign Policy. It’s a tough balance — seeking justice for the victims, preparing for the possibility of a next time, and yet also finding a way to lessen the impact of these people, to avoid giving them the attention they so desperately want. It feels like getting bullied at school and being told to ignore it, that they’re only trying to get a rise out of you, that reacting is how they win.

Parents just don’t understand

The only thing more ironic than reading zero books on your two-week Great American Bookstore Tour is reading one book: a series-concluding young adult novel that I didn’t even buy in print.

In my defense, I did buy nearly 40 new books over the last two weeks, books that have been relegated to a “special” pile atop my kitchen table, where I hope to be reminded on a daily basis that the endgame of buying dozens of unneeded (but oh-so-wanted) new books is that one must eventually get around to reading them. But I suppose dusty used paperbacks — who have spent their recent years crammed in overflowing bookshelves all over the West Coast — should be grateful to have a new and slightly more spacious headquarters in my tiny apartment. They should be thanking me, those books. I gave them a home.

Born round, hungry and addicted to Cinnamon Toast Crunch

For as long as I can remember, for as long as I have existed on this earth—with the possible exception of infancy—I have struggled with my weight. Sometimes it’s been a miniature struggle, a war waged against cafeteria food or bodega breakfast sandwiches, and sometimes it’s been a knock-down-drag-out Battle Royale, a prolonged conflict of interest between me and meals, me and gyms, me and clothes, me and the third dimension.

Throughout my life, I have always felt that there’s a misconception about fat people—and I will, for the purposes of this post, be including myself among fat people—which is that they are most directly unhappy with being fat. While there’s certainly truth in that, you’d be impressed (you thin people) with the mental gymnastics one can engage in to convince oneself that one is not in fact fat, that one is merely temporarily chubby, irreparably big-boned, retaining water, or the victim of a sizing fraud conspiracy perpetuated by the Gap. No, the reality is that fat people are second-most directly unhappy with being fat, and first-most unhappy with being emotionally over-invested in something so innocuous and apparently selectively predatory as food.

Let me take you into my brain for a moment (don’t worry, it’s spacious). Say we’re at dinner, an Italian place. As we catch up on one another’s lives, I’m looking you in the eyes and smiling, but my mind is a million miles away. My mind—since this morning, most likely—is whirring on a hamster wheel of culinary anxiety, which goes a little something like this: