I entered the restaurant (4) looking for the perfect stranger who would write this last and forgettable piece, and I was shocked to find that he looked nothing like I had suspected. No more rhetorical questions about my failed marriages, no more smiling through the mundane inquiries about my beauty regime, no more defending my graphic love scene in Monster's Ball, no more pressure to come up with an excuse as to why I don't have a baby at forty, and finally, no more giving a magazine the power to paint a portrait of me that was just not true. As I sat in my car, (1) driving to what I had sworn would be my last print interview ever, (2) I couldn't help but think of all the reasons why I was glad that this would in fact be my last sit-down dinner with a perfect stranger on a mission.
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