Reuniting with my favorite camp counselor years later over breakfast was not something I’d ever expected, but it turned out to be one of those epic gifts of the life cycle that make you stop for a minute and think: wow, this shithole is pretty alright.
Taylor Swift jokes aside, I find my sartorial cravings this fall heavily inclined towards anything red. Bright yet deep—reds you can’t miss, reds you can’t write off as maroon or burgundy—no, RED.
A list of people I do not trust, some more valid than others.
This book doesn’t hate men, but it knows they’re flawed—it knows that our world, and its system of privileges, is wholly warped…that it continues to need fixing
Exhaustion and indulgence do not make other people “bad,” so why must I color them that way for myself? This is what’s at my core these days, the question I can’t fully kick.
Hasty exchanges at the nail salon over who to go to prom with? Bitchy girl talk overlooking the sea? THIS WAS LIVING, I told myself.
Anorexia recovery brought me down a few pegs, knocked me off my shitty, angry horse and helped me to see other people with a lot more sympathy, and love, than I did before.
“You haven’t read ALL the important books on writing, so you’re probably missing a few crucial insights that all other writers are sitting on like golden fucking eggs.” And other dumb stuff I tell myself, after the jump.
Sometimes you’re waiting for the subway when you feel eyes scooping into the back of your head like they’re looking for ice cream, or some vague sign that you’d be down to disrobe in their presence.
