I'm most bored at lunch, shuffling in a line of people staring at their phones, yelling an order, settling at my desk and eating with the wall. I dislike commuting home. I dislike calling home (Alabama). Thinking about dinner makes my chest tight (like: I can't make another decision or it'll kill me). I check my bald spots before bed, I have one at the crown and two behind my ears because of stress. My neck hurts every morning when I wake up, and I have dreams of being overlooked or of a rabbit that is overlooked and unfed.Read More
"Are you going to throw up?" Alistair asked. I looked up at all the smiling riders cheering as they approached Grand Central.
"No," I said, putting my head down. "I'm just embarrassed."Read More
Every writer should have a friend like Philippa -- she asks all the right questions.Read More
We watched them hop into their car and return to their Airbnb, and I felt a hole in my stomach. There is some element of every interaction lately -- when the phone call is over or I'm waving goodbye on a sidewalk -- that the mask comes off.Read More
Every morning at 7:30 -- the sun turning the windows gray, my Echo alarm chiming, sweat in my hair -- I say to myself: "What is going to happen today?"Read More
Last week began with a bus crash. So much has happened since then that the bus crash feels like an afterthought, even though my shoulder hurt for a few hours after. It took three extra days to write this post -- which felt a little like climbing through a thicket.Read More
"This is a textbook rebellion," he said. I felt like I had been slapped in the face.
"I thought that happened when you were a teenager, and you know, you got a piercing and a tattoo and broke curfew? I'm too old! It's impossible."
"There is such a thing as a delayed teenage rebellion. How much of your life do you feel is repressed?"
"75% perhaps?" I said. He laughed.
Well, there you go.Read More