All my life, I’d been accused of being too much. “Too out there.” “Too artsy.” “Too deranged.” “Too petty.” “Too lanky.” “Too independent.” “Too mouthy.” “Too much.” I took the insults and inhaled them as if they were compliments, swallowing each and every one with a cupidity that suggested they made me happy. And they did. I liked being too much because it meant I was never too little. I never held back. I never bit my tongue. I never pretended to be someone else. My critics were right. I was out there, artsy, deranged, petty, lanky, busty, independent, and mouthy. And for the most part, I
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