Memoir
It's a small life—a simmering whimpering song really—but I will not slip silently into the grass with you, I cannot.
Read...I’ve decided that I no longer want to depend on an exchange of cultural consumption or “comparing lives” currency in order to feel good about myself.
Read...My cocktail is wrong. It’s a gin and tonic with only gin. It’s a martini with 10 olives. And I can’t stand the sun. Not today. Not this month.
Read...I sent out Christmas cards this year, which I wrote upon with an actual pen. But it wasn’t always like this.
Read...Dry humping my pillow and imagining it was David Duchovny seemed a much hotter alternative than doing the real thing.
Read...Six months after my first benzodiazepine prescription, I was in a personal tsunami, a surge of water so deep I could barely see.
Read...For a long time, romantic love was an esoteric thing to me that I assumed would occur eventually, like taxes and having your clothes dry-cleaned.
Read...Anxiety collects in my gut like phlegm-thickened water when there is hair in the drain. It sits and builds and gets thicker and starts to smell gross.
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