personal essay

I'll never forget the day I discovered the name for my mental illness.

Dry humping my pillow and imagining it was David Duchovny seemed a much hotter alternative than doing the real thing.

I'm a feminist who has to get something off my chest that’s, well . . . about my chest.

I always expected my intro to grey hair would be filled with a kind of resigned sadness, if not despair. Spoiler alert: It wasn't.

Not all men are the same. And the battle of the sexes doesn't always need to be a battle.

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.

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.

For the sake of all that is sacred, I will henceforth become a dependable person. Or at least I will try.