Few things have shaped my existence more profoundly than the realization, courtesy of the 1994 film Reality Bites, that there are two kinds of women—Janeane Garofalos and Winona Ryders—and that I would never, ever be a Winona, the only kind that really matters. I wrote about this in my last book, The Witches Are Coming. That line of thinking fucked me up until I was about twenty-seven.
