Memoir

It's a small life—a simmering whimpering song really—but I will not slip silently into the grass with you, I cannot.

I’ve decided that I no longer want to depend on an exchange of cultural consumption or “comparing lives” currency in order to feel good about myself.

My cocktail is wrong. It’s a gin and tonic with only gin. It’s a martini with 10 olives. And I can’t stand the sun. Not today. Not this month.

I sent out Christmas cards this year, which I wrote upon with an actual pen. But it wasn’t always like this.

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

Six months after my first benzodiazepine prescription, I was in a personal tsunami, a surge of water so deep I could barely see.

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.