In every woman’s wardrobe, there are certain accessories that cannot be separated from their back stories.
I was diagnosed with a severe temporal spatial deficit, a learning disability that means I have zero spatial relations skills. It was official: I was a genius trapped in an idiot’s body.
My A-number one visceral fear is speed. More than knives or snakes or confined spaces. Speed. I won’t even go on a motor boat if I can help it.
Because I am a horrible flincher, contact lenses are not an option. I’m always envious of contact-wearers. There are endless reasons to take off one’s glasses during the day and, as I have grown older, what I don’t see has become increasingly pronounced.
Yes. I am writing full-time. Which is strange. It feels like not having a job.
It takes a level of creative depression to hear ‘Girls Just Wanna Have Fun’ and weep.
I have a disproportionate amount of faith in the goodness of the world and that everything will actually work out okay.
Our culture’s obsession with vintage objects has rendered us unable to separate history from nostalgia. People want heart. They want a chaser of emotion with their aesthetics.
We all deserve to be congratulated, but sadly that would mean there’s no one left to do the congratulating.
The search for one’s first professional job is not unlike a magical love potion: when one wants to fall in love with the next thing one sees, one generally does.
It is my belief that people who speak of high school with a sugary fondness are bluffing away early-onset Alzheimer’s.
What annoyed me was that I so often attempted to weasel out of things on purpose, it killed me to do it by accident. It seemed like a waste of whatever detailed lie I was going to have to come up with.
I got out on the street and started crying the kind of hysterical tears made justifiable only by turning off one’s cell phone, putting it to the ear, and pretending to be told of a death in the family.
But now my problems had been set loose. They could be anywhere at any time and I was just like everyone else I knew: almost positive that there was something profoundly and undiagnosably wrong with me.
I wouldn’t want to live in Berlin. It’s bombed out and there’s a lot of techno.
We’ve come to expect so little from online privacy measures that public displays of concern about the matter are more or less for show. Being devastated to discover you’ve been tagged in somebody else’s photo has an air of the melodramatic about it at this point.
You can’t possibly fathom the ins and outs of a prepubescent beauty treatment until you’ve felt the strange but exhilarating tingle of a cottage-cheese-and-Pop-Rocks facial.
I am starting to like LA, but the concept of a place you have to get used to so much seems a little weird to me. I have been to many foreign cities where I didn’t have do acclimatize as much as I did to LA.
Sometimes we don’t know what we want until we don’t get it.
I was surprised by how much I loved Portland. It is so wonderfully creative without being artsy. Great food scene.