by Cazzie David
Contents
* * *
Title Page
Contents
Copyright
Dedication
Introduction
Neurosychological Evaluation of Cazzie David
Mean Sister
Do Not Disturb
Ex Dysmorphia (Insecurity When You’re the Ex-Girlfriend)
Almost Pretty
Is Everything Gonna Be Fine?
Tweets I Would Tweet If I Weren’t Morally Opposed to Twitter: I
Why God Is Definitely Real
Too Full to Fuck
So Embarrassing
Love You to Death
Insecurity When You’re the New Girlfriend
Environ-Mental Mom
Tweets I Would Tweet If I Weren’t Morally Opposed to Twitter: II
Shit-Talking Etiquette
My Parasite
Privileged Assistant
I Got a Cat for My Anxiety
This Essay Doesn’t Pass the Bechdel Test
Tweets I Would Tweet If I Weren’t Morally Opposed to Twitter: III
Moving Out
Erase Me
Thanksgiving
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Connect with HMH
Footnotes
Copyright © 2020 by Almost Pretty Productions, Inc.
All rights reserved
For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to [email protected] or to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company, 3 Park Avenue, 19th Floor, New York, New York 10016.
hmhbooks.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: David, Cazzie, 1994– author.
Title: No one asked for this : essays / Cazzie David.
Description: Boston : Mariner Books, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, [2020]
Identifiers: LCCN 2020023877 (print) | LCCN 2020023878 (ebook) | ISBN 9780358197027 (trade paperback) | ISBN 9780358181781 (ebook)
Subjects: LCSH: David, Cazzie, 1994– | Television producers and directors—United States—Biography.
Classification: LCC PN1992.4.D2788 A3 2020 (print) | LCC PN1992.4.D2788 (ebook) | DDC 791.4502/33092 [B]—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020023877
LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020023878
Cover illustration © David de las Heras
Cover design by Mark Robinson
Author photograph © Katie McCurdy
Portions of the chapter “Love You to Death” first published, in different form, in the March 2018 issue of InStyle.
The author has changed the names of some of the people who appear in this book.
v1.1020
To my mother, my sister, and my father
Also for Blanca and Claudia
Introduction
I’m aware that most people who write nonfiction books usually have an interesting life story or at least a list of accomplishments to reflect on. I’ve been alive for only twenty-six years, which isn’t very long, therefore I possess neither of those things. However, if someone was interviewing for a job—let’s say to be a dental hygienist—and they told you they had twenty-six years of dental experience, you would think, Hey, that person is qualified! Therefore, technically, I’ve amassed enough life experiences to fill a book. I have experience living with three crazy people (my parents and sister). I have school experience; lots of funny things took place there. I have a ton of experience avoiding danger, something I have been doing assiduously since I was born. And once my screen-time average was nine hours a day for a full month, so I have more experience with social media than all sane people and probably some other insane people as well.
Regardless of whether I was able to trick you into believing I’ve had enough experience to write a book, I will have no such luck when it comes to convincing you that I’m a likable protagonist. I think almost everything I say is annoying and I’m certain being around me must be a hell I can’t comprehend, because I’ve never had the displeasure of meeting me. I regret every word I’ve ever said out loud in public and even the words I’ve said to people I trust in private.
So why would I write a book of thousands of words that will allow people to formulate opinions about me and therefore cause me to panic indefinitely? Because I’m highly skilled at self-sabotaging my mental health. As skilled as I am at making you, the reader, immediately question why you should read this book when evenI am saying that I hate me. Why would I do something like that? I don’t know. I don’t have the answers to everything. Or anything.
I think I could potentially be likable if I were written as a character in a novel. Even the most deeply flawed protagonists are hard not to intuitively sympathize with because you know their lives are constructed by a narrator. If you do end up completely disliking a character, it could be interpreted as a purposeful stylistic choice by the author. If you hate the main character in a book of personal essays, you know it was not done on purpose.
A third-person narrator is even more credible. Seeing the word she instead of I makes you immediately trust the perspective more, as it’s hard to entirely believe what anyone says about themselves. It’s like thinking that a person’s Instagram is an accurate reflection of who they are. Plus I always sounds so self-important. For example:
“She walked into the room and poured herself a cup of coffee.”
I think: She’s mysterious. Complicated, but relatable. I too, would pour myself a cup of coffee.
And then there’s this: “I walked into the room and poured myself a cup of coffee.”
I think: Wow, you think you’re sooo fucking cool walking into the room getting coffee, don’t you? Get over yourself!!
I unfortunately can’t write about myself in the third person, because that would be psychotic. But I do want to start off on a good note, a note where you aren’t inundated with self-absorption in the form of Is so your eye rolls can be minimized and your confidence in me established. So I made a compromise and “hired” a narrator for the rest of the introduction. He will introduce the book and me in a way that is reliable and sympathetic. You will trust him because his point of view is assured, and because he is a man.
* * *
If you are interested in stories with happy endings, you would be better off reading some other book. In this book, not only is there no happy ending, there is no happy beginning and very few happy things in the middle. This is because not very many happy things happened in the lives life of the three Baudelaire youngsters Cazzie David, but despite being incredibly privileged she finds it impossible to be happy and exist in the world. Violet, Klaus and Sunny Baudelaire were intelligent children and they were charming and resourceful and had pleasant facial features. Cazzie isn’t very bright. She was a product of the ADD generation and therefore never read for fun, or even for school, as she was also lucky enough to grow up with SparkNotes, so hopefully you were not looking to be intellectually stimulated by this book. She’s not resourceful, per se, but she does have a knack for inventing phone stands out of anything within arm’s length, a skill developed from years of incessant laziness. She has facial features that fall anywhere between pleasant and hideous depending on the angle, but they were she was extremely unlucky, and still most everything that happened to them her was rife with misfortune, misery, and despair. I’m sorry to tell you this, but that is how the story goes.
* * *
With all due respect,
Lemony Snicket *
[redacted] [redacted], Ph.D.
[redacted] [redacted] [redacted] [redacted]
NEUROPSYCHOLOGICAL EVALUATION
Child’s name: Cazzie
David
Parents: Laurie and Larry David
Child’s date of birth: May 10, 1994
Age at assessment: 12.9
Dates of evaluation: March 23, 30 and April 4, 2007
CONFIDENTIALITY
The following report may contain sensitive information subject to misinterpretation by untrained individuals. Nonconsensual redisclosure is prohibited by section 5327, Welfare and Institutions Code.
LIMITS OF INFORMED CONSENT
This examiner carefully informed the examinee’s parents of the purpose of this assessment and the intended use of its results. The examinee’s parents consented to the activities of this assessment. Specific consent of the examinee’s parent is needed to release this report to any person or agency.
REASON FOR REFERRAL
Cazzie David, a 12-year-old Caucasian right-handed girl, presently comes to clinical attention out of concern for her lack of passion for anything. Cazzie is disorganized. She loses books, does not bring home right materials for homework, and does not take notes in class. Cazzie says she is stupid and that is why she cannot do her schoolwork. Both parents see significant symptoms of depression and anxiety (almost always is negative about things, is easily upset; often is sad, changes moods quickly; complains about being teased, says no one understands her, says she hates herself, says she wants to kill herself, says she wishes she were dead, seems lonely, says no one likes her, often says she is not good at things, worries about what teachers think, worries about things that cannot be changed, is fearful; almost always worries; is afraid of making mistakes, tries too hard to please others). Mr. David rates aggression as a problem and significant atypical behaviors (often repeats an activity over and over; sometimes has strange ideas and seems out of touch with reality; almost always says things that don’t make sense).
* * *
Additional concerns include Cazzie’s number of fears. She is afraid to go downstairs in the house alone and since she was young whenever she goes outside with her parents she requires one to walk on either side of her. It is not known whether this is to shield her from intense sadness and empathy she feels for those less fortunate versus whether she is afraid of being attacked. The present level of crisis and the degree to which it has been bound to get the attention of her school and her family may be a means of trying to bring attention to a situation which desperately needs to be addressed to set Cazzie on a different course for the future.
PSYCHOLOGICAL HISTORY
Mr. and Mrs. David have been together 15 years and describe the relationship as stable. Mrs. David describes herself as a disciplinarian who enforces rules, whereas she describes Mr. David as more of a soft touch who tends not to follow through on consequences. Cazzie occasionally feels persecuted by her mother and will appeal to her father, who can sometimes talk with her and help her feel better. Cazzie has a younger sister, Romy, aged 11, who is described by her mother as upbeat, enthusiastic, in love with life,
[redacted] [redacted] [redacted]
[redacted] [redacted]
Neuropsychological Assessment
Consultation
Phone: [redacted] Fax: [redacted]
Mean Sister
Cazzie has a younger sister, Romy, aged 11, who is described by her mother as upbeat, enthusiastic, in love with life, sweet and perfectionistic. Relationship between siblings is “fine with typical sibling fights,” though Cazzie has been disinterested in Romy recently.
—Excerpt from neuropsychological evaluation of Cazzie David, 2007
My sister, Romy, thinks I’m a “mean sister.” I think Romy is an annoying sister. I believe the only reason I’m mean is because she’s annoying. She believes she’s not annoying. You see the dilemma.
One of the reasons she thinks I’m mean is that I don’t show her I care about her “through my actions.” I’ll often forget to check in and ask how she’s doing; sometimes I’ll forget to respond to her texts. It’s not that I don’t care about her—of course I do, she’s my sister! I’m just very absent-minded, or terribly self-involved, or both. I’ll forget plans no matter who they’re with and appointments no matter how important. Everyone who knows me has at one point said, “WHY DON’T YOU USE A CALENDAR?!” and suddenly, inspired by the obvious genius of a calendar, I’ll go on my phone to use it but instead look at Daily Mail articles, be overwhelmed by how much I hate everything, and forget to add the appointment. The good news is my dad once told me that absent-mindedness is a sign of creativity. Sure, he told me this while I was sobbing to him on the phone at the airport after I’d missed my flight even though I was sitting at the gate the whole time, but it was still comforting.
The only people I tend to remember to check in with are the ones that I feel sympathy for at that current moment. I text my childhood nanny once every three days and any friend who is going through a bad breakup—though the second she’s over it, she’ll stop hearing from me. I’m like Mary Poppins for the lonely and depressed in my life—once the children don’t need me anymore, I’m gone. I don’t check in with people who should be fine, like my sister, who has a good job, a boyfriend who loves her, and a mom who takes her shopping once a year out of some brilliant tradition Romy thought of as a kid. The only tradition I have with my mom is getting publicly humiliated via her Instagram comments.
My mom and Romy are extremely similar. My dad and I are extremely similar. My mom and dad got divorced because of their differences. I, unfortunately, cannot divorce my sister, although it’s evident that if we were a married couple that is what we would do.
My sister and I don’t have a gene in common. I’m unhappy by virtue of birth; she’s unhappy by virtue of circumstance. I only worry about existential stuff; she only worries about daily hurdles. All I talk about is death; she can’t talk about death without having a panic attack. I was named after a basketball player; she was named after an elegant French actress. I failed almost every class I’ve ever taken; she’s a straight A student. Everything she does is perfect, or has to be perfect. Her room is pink and pristine with not a thing out of place. She has ten perfume bottles that are perfectly lined up along with everything else on a vanity stand that she actively makes sure never to scratch. All of her photos are framed and hung up. She makes her bed every morning, and her cashmere sweaters are organized by color. In comparison, I am a mess. My room is that of an emo, depressed high-school teenager—piles of clothes and crumpled papers with disconcerting school-shooter-y doodles scribbled all over them. When my mom comes into my room, the first thing she does is open a window to “get some light in.” Even if the window is already open and it is already light.
My sister loves to point out how different we are. Take the time I was doing my makeup in front of her and I accidentally dropped my eyeshadow onto the floor. She watched in horror as it broke into a thousand little powder cracks. Without reacting, I dipped my brush onto the now sparkly ground and painted my eyes with the floor shadow.
“Wow, we’re soooooo different,” she said disparagingly.
“Why is that necessary to say?”
“I just would never do that.”
“Well, congratulations.”
Romy and I fight about things most sisters fight about, like who remembers the childhood memory correctly, but we fight about them in a way where you’d think one of us quite literally stabbed the other in the back. Every argument has the intensity of having fucked the other’s boyfriend. I’m afraid to mention anything from our past because of the rage that ensues. I’d rather block it all out than have another maddening fight about who won the swimming race in the summer of 2005 (me) and which one of us named our first dog (also me). At this point, both of our memories should be studied.
“YOU THINK EVERYTHING WAS YOU! YOU HAVE A WEIRD COMPLEX, CAZZIE! GO TO THERAPY!” she’ll scream.
“Yeah, I do have a complex. A complex for THE TRUTH!”
Like most sisters, we also fight about clothes. I can’t wear something new without her questioning me l
ike she’s a mall security cop who just saw me steal it from the store.
“What are those jeans?” she’ll ask.
“I don’t know, jeans?” I’ll respond.
“Where did you get them?”
“They’re Levi’s.”
“How did you pay for them?”
“My money . . .”
“Hmmm.”
If I told her the actual truth—that my parents paid for the jeans without knowing it—she would freak out, tell on me, and then probably insist on them getting her new jeans because she would never spend money without asking.
My sister’s questioning is insidious, especially if the thing I’m wearing belongs to my mother. I’m not allowed to borrow anything of my mom’s for reasons such as I’m irresponsible, I’ll lose it, I’ll stain it, I’ll leave it on the floor, I’ll lend it to my friend, it’ll come back smelling like weed. However, my mom will lend anything to Romy for reasons such as she’s responsible, she doesn’t lose anything, she doesn’t stain anything, she hangs it up in her closet, and it comes back smelling better than it did before.
“What’s that sweater?” Romy will ask as if it’s the missing sweater a murder victim was last seen in.
“Oh. It’s Mom’s.”
“She gave it to you?!”
“No, I’m borrowing it.”
“Did you ask if you could borrow it?”
“Obviously.”
“Well, are you gonna give it back?”
“No, I’m not going to give it back.Yes, obviously, I’m going to give it back!”
“You always forget.”
“I’m not going to!”
Then she’ll swiftly go on her phone and text my mom something along the lines of Did you let Cazzie borrow your sweater or did she steal it?
To which my mom will reply, WHAT?!because of course I stole it. I had to steal it. She won’t let me borrow anything!