I recently read two books written by people I know. (It's cool. I'm fine! I love the choices I've made and that I expend my creative energy tweeting on behalf of a corporation.) The first, a collection of essays, was by a friend with whom I share not one but two alma maters: our performing… Continue reading writers: they’re just like us!
Maybe it's magical thinking: If I don't name it, it can't be. It's a backwards Ursula K. LeGuin.
I approach anything that's not, e.g., reading Proust with a keening sense of shame and thus never learn to do it properly. The trouble is that I've also never read Proust, either, putting me in this liminal space where I have neither Instagram followers nor highfalutin lit-bro cred.
On reading in the 21st century: “God help me if I have to wade through another gratuitous description of the hysterical wife of a put-upon man chafing at the bonds of corporate servitude and his milquetoast children. Give me Eileen and her constipation any day.”
It's New Year's and so I've been faffing around — we all agree that "faffing around" is the best British-ism, yes? — with New Year's resolutions. I like to set a resolution or two but inevitably I forget them within weeks, which is fine, since it's usually something like "Accept more social invitations" that is… Continue reading cleaning up bottles with you on new year’s day
When I think about unpacking writing to its constituent biological processes, or to the rules of grammar and tone that comprise it, I feel nauseous like I do when I think about what’s outside of the universe, or God, or my most profoundly embarrassing moments.
This is part 2 of an ongoing* series about the Internet. Last week, I talked about how social media was my conduit to self-actualization (at least once I emerged from underneath the rock where I’d been hiding from Instagram for five years). This week, I counter that thesis by arguing that the Internet is a… Continue reading the medium is the message
I have thought often since then about where the boundaries lie between what's mine and what's fair for me to talk about and what secrets belong to the people who shape me.
We moved from one house to another, not even two miles away, when I was twelve. On the last night in the old house, I wrote a letter that I've since misplaced to remind myself of who I had been when I lived in that house. (I'm not sure how I drew up quite as… Continue reading all the old familiar places
Over the course of the past year, since landing my first grown-up job, I turned into a yuppie douchebag. I go to spin class, I eat salads, I recently paid a flat fee to taste an unlimited number of IPAs in a muddy field littered with fake mustaches. Were I a more entrepreneurial woman, I… Continue reading welcome to the anti-lifestyle blog