Potato Salad Diaries
September 18, 2014. I can imagine the dinner conversation now: “Is it just me, or does this macaroni salad have more parsley in it than usual?” My bad.
The End of Things
Things are always ending and beginning, simultaneously and separately. It’s not that an end leads to a beginning—an end is a beginning. They are the same.
Picking at the Past
I used to play the guitar. Never well, but I used to play. I did it because I had to—during the application process, I ticked a box that said “I know a few chords.” My fate was sealed.
Homecoming
I miss the energy. The companionship. The routine. I miss the rah rah school spirit and the constant activity and the sense that I was always accomplishing something (seemingly) important.
Feminist Confessions
Somehow, years before, I’d put myself in a box. I could either be pretty or a bad-ass soccer player, not both, and it was obvious which the superior choice was.
Tongue Twisted
In English, I am precise and quick with words. In Arabic, I am earnest and confused, funny not because of wit but because I am fumbling a language everyone else understands.
I’m No Better
If you’re someone who doesn’t like to help people, who is selfish, and who is like me, you hate reading this stuff. “SO what, Bart? Make me feel bad for walking past a homeless person?
Andrew W.K Is My Role Model
To be honest, I’m not even that big a fan of his music. But here is the thing about Andrew W.K.—he is such a relentlessly positive person that you can’t help but love him.
Saturdays in Brooklyn: A Series of Snapshots
I invite him up to my apartment after our french toast so he can tell me if our apartment is crooked. (Water spilled last week and began running swiftly towards the front door.) It is.
Hot Food Makes Me Happy
But this is efficient, I tell myself. Hot food requires a stove, and a stove requires money, and I am a sophomore trying to backpack Europe on a budget. Food seemed like the best place to cut corners.
