If you were away from your computer this weekend, here’s what you missed at the Rumpus.
Remember when we blogged about the responses Emily Rapp gets when writing about her terminally ill son? Here’s some of that writing, an emotional steamroller of an essay titled “Dirty or Clean?”
I was “connecting” with people, sure, but it was not intimate and it did not fuel or nurture me at a time when I was already running on emotional reserves I didn’t even know I had until they were tapped out. I felt like an arrow of sheer desire, flying through the air in a small town and emblazoned with this unfortunate tag line: “Newly single mother of a dying baby.” Not exactly the description of somebody’s dream girl. And I didn’t care. I wanted to fuck and be fucked. I felt like I had a t-shirt that read TRAGEDY stenciled across it in rhinestones; I was bedazzled by bad luck.
Also, if you couldn’t make it to our Kickstarter party in New York, just watch this video montage and pretend you were there. (Then make plans to go to our LA Kickstarter party this Friday.)
