I Was Wrong About Living Alone
I missed sharing a gallon of oat milk—because who really goes through a whole gallon of alternative milk alone?
I missed sharing a gallon of oat milk—because who really goes through a whole gallon of alternative milk alone?
I got excited about all the things we are going to be doing at the festival, the conversations I haven’t had yet, all the Diet Cokes I am going to drink.
The line becomes part of the experience, a lesson in patience wrapped in air conditioning and Mickey Ears wallpaper.
Our melting pot is being emptied out, and they are sifting through the ingredients.
I always have a healthy fear of fish cooked in a truck, but this was a revelation.
Like the little playground dictator I was, I responded, “Yes, you do. Here is your role.”
I swear I see the letters breathe.
I felt the performance begin—that stool was a stage and I was an actor.
My birth story is one that my mom shares every year —she saw Lorelai do it in a Gilmore Girls episode.
You need the right blend of ‘we all know each other, but there is room for something wild to happen.’
Ann walked him the ten minutes to his apartment in the opposite direction of hers—chivalry isn’t dead, folks.
I ghosted my therapist.
There is no faking the spark when you let yourself go in the music.
It’s for those times you need to be alone, and it’s to be consumed communally. That is weird.
Like all good reckonings, there’s got to be a soundtrack.
My shorts were unprepared for a great DJ and a circle of people asking me to vogue.
My colon felt like it was in my spleen.