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“You know Sumi, sex is fun.”

My mom said this to me at the tender age of 15 as she rolled up the window and locked the doors of her Chevy Blazer as we left the drive through of the bank. In the many years since, it has occurred to me that saying “Duh, I know” in the voice that only a suburban teenage girl can muster may have been a great option at this point, although it would certainly have led to a different type of conversation, however I didn’t do that. I promptly began to twitch, tilted my head down and recessed my lower lip in a way that would suggest that my parents were actually cousins. While my physical appearance may have led one to believe that I was mentally divergent, I was actually glassy-eyed due to the concentration I was using to recall the exact specifics on how to make an early 1990s Blazer roll over and blow up. Practically every week there was a Dateline news report on how to make an SUV explode, why was I having trouble remember the logistics now?

This was the worst trip to the mall; ever.