Sorry for the Inconvenience: A Memoir

by Farah Naz Rishi

so much of what we refer to as “nonfiction” relies on our perception of the world and the events unfolding around us. Nonfiction is based on real things that actually happened, yes, but nonfiction is never exactly the full truth: it is our brains seeing ourselves in the mirror and wondering why our head is so big.

Except cruelty can also be stealthy and insidious. Like dismissing one’s feelings, over and over again—until one day you start to forget how to feel anything.

the same way adults will tell other adults, especially women, that to openly admit to wanting love is desperate, shameful even—a desire for airheads, not those with ambition.

Self reminder

But I hated being in a world that demanded women protect themselves instead of punishing the men who would harm them in the first place.

I’ve always hated that phrase. Half the time, whenever someone says It’s not personal, it feels like a get-out-of-jail-free card. It’s a way to refuse responsibility for hurting someone.

But perhaps that was the problem with finding someone whose company you enjoy; the world without them feels dulled. You become greedy for their presence, even when you’re too afraid to ask for it.

He’d driven thirty minutes from his own campus at West Chester University to pick me up from class and drive me back to Bryn Mawr.

This is sucha jump scare because what dp you mean the author grew up.in the same area i did i literally have multiple close friends at WCU

Perhaps this is why we forgive people who don’t deserve it: nostalgia is a hell of a drug. It blurred all the bad, brightened the scant good, and told you pretty lies.

And Dad loved gardening because he believed it was an act of worship. Gardening reminded him that God exists, that God must exist, because how else could one plant a mere seed into the dirt and watch as the earth itself would transform it with only a little water and tiny bees to act as stewards? And soon that tiny, seemingly insignificant seed would be replaced by a flower, a tree, even fruit to eat. And is that not amazing?

By then he’d gotten a job in a lab to pay for his own apartment in nearby King of Prussia,

Jump scare after scare after scare i literally grew up going to this MALL

Stephen was the type of best friend who, instead of keeping the peace and watching me walk off a cliff’s edge, would firmly—but lovingly—tug until I realized I was about to fall.

I’d recently discovered an author—we’ll call her Anne Marie Karson—whose work I devoured.

I want tp know what this author that got her name changed here

“Want some company in Portland?”

This boy is so in love omg its sp cutw

I’m pretty sure we had to sign an NDA.

Oh thats why the authors name was censored

What if love was a patient thing that simply stood at your side, offering you a hand? What if it was all the best of friendships—a partnership, a promise to face the unfeeling world and all its follies together? Or simply the quiet, intimate details of a person, like how their lips part when they sleep, how they take their coffee, their preferences in tea?

could be a—what’s it called—a marriage of convenience.”

Asolutely wild

Sometimes I wondered if people used religion as an excuse to ignore the humanity of others, and instead reduce them to their sins.

For inspiration, I even kept Rebecca’s debut novel, The Poppy War, which had just been published, right by my computer.

thisis the last thing i exprcted omg

“Rarely, if ever, are any of us healed in isolation. Healing is an act of communion.”

maybe love simply sees you in a room when no one else does. Love was a pat on the head at the end of a hard day, a kind word of acknowledgment in a world so damn hard to live in. Love was refuge. Love was comfort. Love was ease. And, sometimes, that was enough to hold on to.

To my parents: Thank you for making me stronger. I know you only wanted the best for your kids, and for that I’ll always be grateful.