[In which I type for five straight minutes stopping only when the timer goes ding]

When I was a kid, if my mom didn’t like exactly what I did, I threw a fit.

I argued, I begged, I cajoled – it’s to my mother’s credit that she insisted on gently, but firmly, having her own opinion. Oh, god yes, it would have been so much easier for her to say, Yes, honey…Annie is the finest film cinema has ever created and should be honored with the highest awards for acting, directing, evil orphanage owners, and general histrionics.

Instead, she leaned against the kitchen counter and gazed at me calmly, her forehead wrinkling a little when I continued to argue through sobs.

This need for people I love to see exactly eye-to-eye with me persisted for a good number of years. It wasn’t until college, actually, that I finally began to understand how to let people disagree with me.

Now, if someone close to me argues that, actually, the meaningful emotional experience I had regarding

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