AND I AM LOVING THE HELL OUT OF IT.
The Scrabble essay almost killed me—funny, self-deprecating, fascinating in that NOW I NEED TO READ ALL OF THE BOOKS ABOUT COMPETITIVE SCRABBLE way. For instance:
I have a Scrabble nemesis. His name is Henry. He has the most beautiful blue-gray eyes I have ever seen. The beauty of his perfect eyes only makes me hate him more. He has been known to wear a fanny pack and often scowls. Nemeses aren't born. They are made.
I was determined to win my second match because I am that competitive and I have pride and winning feels way better than losing. My opponent was really quiet and taciturn. It was not fun playing her. I slaughtered her 403-229 and I wanted to scream I was so happy. I was very tempted to jump on the table and shout, "IN YOUR FACE." For the sake of sportsmanship, I remained quiet and polite and thanked her for the game. She coldly walked away without so much as a by-your-leave. Later, as I drove home, I did gloat. I gloated a lot.
Her descriptions of people and interactions are stellar, and she folds in her thoughts about gender and race and sexuality and education and economic class and privilege and about trying to be a decent human being in a way that doesn't come off as didactic or judgmental or condescending. LOVE.