Let's Pretend This Never Happened

Let’s Pretend
This Never Happened

Let’s Pretend
This Never Happened

(A Mostly True Memoir)

Jenny Lawson

THE BLOGGESS

AMY EINHORN BOOKS

Published by G. P. Putnam’s Sons
a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
New York

AMY EINHORN BOOKS

Published by G. P. Putnam’s Sons

Publishers Since 1838

Published by the Penguin Group

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Copyright © 2012 by Jenny Lawson

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

Published simultaneously in Canada

“Amy Einhorn Books” and the “ae” logo are registered trademarks belonging to Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

Endpaper art: Wildlife © Madeleine Northey, 2012. All rights reserved.
[email protected]

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Lawson, Jenny, date.

Let’s pretend this never happened : (a mostly true memoir) / Jenny Lawson.

p.        cm.

ISBN: 978-1-101-57308-2

1. Lawson, Jenny.    2. Journalists—United States—Biography.    3. Humorists, American—21st century—Biography.    I. Title.    II. Title: Let’s pretend this never happened.

PN4874.L285A3          2012                2011050662

070.92—dc23

Printed in the United States of America

1    3    5    7    9    10    8    6    4    2

BOOK DESIGN BY NICOLE LAROCHE

Although the incidents in this book are substantially as I remember them, the names and certain identifying features of some people portrayed in it have been changed to protect their privacy. ~ Jenny Lawson

While the author has made every effort to provide accurate telephone numbers and Internet addresses at the time of publication, neither the publisher nor the author assumes any responsibility for errors, or for changes that occur after publication. Further, the publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

Penguin is committed to publishing works of quality and integrity. In that spirit, we are proud to offer this book to our readers; however, the story, the experiences, and the words are the author’s alone.

ALWAYS LEARNING

PEARSON

This book is a love letter to my family. It’s about the surprising discovery that the most terribly human moments—the ones we want to pretend never happened—are the very same moments that make us who we are today. I’ve reserved the very best stories of my life for this book . . . to celebrate the strange, and to give thanks for the bizarre. Because you are defined not by life’s imperfect moments, but by your reaction to them. And because there is joy in embracing—rather than running screaming from—the utter absurdity of life. I thank my family for teaching me that lesson. In spades.

I want to thank everyone who helped me create this book, except for that guy who yelled at me in Kmart when I was eight because he thought I was being “too rowdy.”

You’re an asshole, sir.

Why, Yes, There
Is
a Method to My Madness

Contents

Introduction

I Was a Three-Year-Old Arsonist

My Childhood: David Copperfield Meets
Guns & Ammo
Magazine

Stanley, the Magical Talking Squirrel

Don’t Tell Your Parents

Jenkins, You Motherfucker

If You Need an Arm Condom, It Might Be Time to Reevaluate Some of Your Life Choices

Draw Me a Fucking Dog

And That’s Why Neil Patrick Harris Would Be the Most Successful Mass Murderer Ever

No One Ever Taught Me Couch Etiquette

Just Your Average Engagement Story

It Wasn’t Stew

Married on the Fourth of July

There’s No Place Like Home

A Series of Helpful Post-it Notes I Left Around the House for My Husband This Week

The Dark and Disturbing Secrets HR Doesn’t Want You to Know

If You See My Liver, You’ve Gone Too Far

My Vagina Is Fine. Thanks for Asking

Phone Conversation I Had with My Husband After I Got Lost for the Eighty Thousandth Time

And Then I Got Stabbed in the Face by a Serial Killer

Thanks for the Zombies, Jesus

Making Friends with Girls

I Am the Wizard of Oz of Housewives (In That I Am Both “Great and Terrible”
and
Because I Sometimes Hide Behind the Curtains)

The Psychopath on the Other Side of the Bathroom Door

An Open Letter to My Husband, Who Is Asleep in the Next Room

Just to Clarify: We Don’t Sleep with Goats

Stabbed by Chicken

It Wasn’t Even My Crack

Honestly, I Don’t Even Know Where I Got That Machete: A Comic Tragedy in Three
Parts
Days

I’m Going to Need an Old Priest and a Young Priest

And That’s Why You Should Learn to Pick Your Battles

Hairless Rats: Free for Kids Only

And Then I Snuck a Dead Cuban Alligator on an Airplane

You Can’t Go Home Again (Unless You Want to Get Mauled by Wild Dogs)

Epilogue

The End (Sort of)

True Facts

Acknowledgments

Introduction

This book is totally true, except for the parts that aren’t. It’s basically like
Little House on the Prairie
but with more cursing. And I know, you’re thinking,
“But
Little House on the Prairie
was totally true!”
and no, I’m sorry, but it wasn’t. Laura Ingalls was a compulsive liar with no fact-checker, and probably if she was still alive today her mom would be saying, “I don’t know
how
Laura came up with this whole
‘I’m-a-small-girl-on-the-prairie’
story. We lived in New Jersey with her aunt Frieda and our dog, Mary, who was blinded when Laura tried to bleach a lightning bolt on her forehead. I have no idea where she got the
‘and we lived in a dugout’
thing, although we did take her to Carlsbad Caverns once.”

And that’s why
I’m
better than Laura Ingalls. Because my story is ninety percent accurate,
and
I really did live in a dugout.
¹
The reason this memoir is only
mostly
true instead of
totally
true is that I relish not getting sued. Also, I want my family to be able to say, “Oh,
that
never happened.
Of course
we never actually tossed her out of a moving car when she was eight. That’s one of those
crazy
things that isn’t quite the truth.” (And they’re right, because the truth is that I was nine. I was sitting on my mom’s
lap when my dad made a hard left, the door popped open, and I was tossed out like a sack full of kittens. My mom managed to grab my arm, which would have been helpful if my father had actually
stopped
the car, but apparently he didn’t notice or possibly thought I’d just catch up, and so my legs were dragged through a parking lot that I’m pretty sure was paved with broken glass and used syringes. (I learned three lessons from this experience:
One:
that vehicle safety in the late seventies was not exceptional for children.
Two:
that you should always leave before the officials arrive, as the orangeish sting of the medicinal acid applied by a sadistic ambulance driver will hurt far worse than any injury you can sustain being dragged behind a car.
And three:
that “Don’t make me come back there” is an empty threat, unless your father has been driving four hours with two screaming kids and he suddenly gets very quiet, in which case you should lock your door or at least remember to tuck and roll. I’m not saying he
intentionally
threw me out of a moving car, just that an opportunity presented itself and that my father is a dangerous man who shouldn’t be trusted.)
²

Did you notice how, like,
half
of this introduction was a rambling parenthetical? That shit is going to happen
all the time.
I apologize in advance for that, and also for offending you, because you’re going to get halfway through this book and giggle at non sequiturs about Hitler and abortions and poverty, and you’ll feel superior to all the uptight, easily offended people who need to learn how to take a fucking joke, but then somewhere in here you’ll read one random thing that
you’re
sensitive about, and everyone else will think it’s hysterical, but you’ll think, “Oh, that is
way
over the line.” I apologize for that one thing. Honestly, I don’t know what I was thinking.