Diana Bellows

I had spent the whole day packing for my return to Idaho—second semester at Ricks, everything lined up like a row of dominoes. My classes were set. My grant money had been deposited. Cami was catching a ride with me in the morning, so I even had companionship built in for the drive. Everything was…

I had no roadmap, no guidebook, no inherited wisdom for navigating college. Mom never went. Dad took a couple semesters, but based on his stories, the only thing he majored in was Not Getting Caught Street Racing. Alan and Jason each tried the community college but quit when they realized they knew more about computers…

Since we’ve reached the part of my tale where I believed it was time to search—in earnest—for my eternal mate, we need to review my romantic resume. Spoiler: it’s short. You already know about the “kissing girl” fiasco from the playground. So, no early success there. In the so-called gifted program, there was a boy…

One of the problems in writing out forty-five years of embarrassment is not knowing where to start. If I immediately dive into the good stories, you’ll have no motivation to keep going. No, no—you don’t get the pizza party orgy story on page one. You have to earn that. And I don’t need to unload…

A proper Mormon child gets baptized the moment they turn eight and officially become liable for their sins—which, in my case, included fighting with my older brothers, coveting the neighbor’s Barbie Dream House, and one particularly scandalous crime: washing myself “down there” in the bathtub without a washcloth. My mother caught me mid-suds and reacted…