Lena Dunham i New Yorker

Close to tears, I called my mother. My mom is a Long Island Jew, and my dad is a Connecticut Wasp, and they were in Deer Isle, Maine, visiting his best friend from boarding school. Everyone but my mom was out sailing on a boat known as Cognac; she was inside the cottage, having an asthma attack.

That is, she was happily avoiding day-old tuna salad and being asked to “grab the rudder for a second” and reading Vanity Fair by the land line instead. I told her the story, and she was scandalized. “How inappropriate!” she cried. “How wrong! That woman is a grownup, and you are a child. Why would she do this?” She told me to write a levelheaded query about it to my ex-boyfriend, Noah. I did as I was told. A model of equanimity, I forwarded the message to him with the heading “What the fuck is this shit?”

He wrote back quickly: “Oh my god. Well, I was just hanging out with them and we kept on getting into these conversations (with my grandparents, too) about the Internet and virtual spaces and avatars. . . . Something must have reorganized in her thinking about her online presence. She means it when she says she remembers you with pleasure and fondness. By the way, I have moved to the Bay Area. I hope you are well.”

He had moved? Without even telling me? After a year and a half of my telling people that I wished he would move and not even tell me? I was insulted. And I wouldn’t drop it. I e-mailed him again: “What did I do? What set it off? Was it the trailer for my movie? Was it my Twitter?”

He conceded that Nancy did feel she learned too much about me from my status updates. Like the one where I said something like “It’s Christmas day and I have a raging UTI—do you think I got it from watching 9½ weeks?” Or was it the one that sort of goes “I want to date a male flight attendant. Everyone I’ve slept with is gay anyway.” Here’s the thing, or at least a thing, about me—I hate offending people. Even though I love the feel of something vaguely offensive on my tongue, I guess I want to have my cake and tweet it, too.

Lena Dunham skriver altså i New Yorker, i sin deilige detaljdelende stil. Her er litt mer av teksten. Men den stopper dessverre midt i. Man kan lese hele hvis man har en iPad (irriterende) eller hvis man abonnerer, men da må man senere selv av-abonnere seg (irriterend). Så jeg får ikke lest hele før om en uke når iPaden kommer tilbake til Olaf Ryes plass her jeg er.