Essays
163 posts
The Blood of My Mother
For as long as I remember, I have had stories in my head and instead of writing them down, I had imaginary conversations with people.
You’re Not My Birth Mother, But Thanks
But then someone appeared: a woman. Forty-ish. Brown hair. Casual sweater and jeans. An apologetic grimace.
Escape Velocity
But neither of us has said what does matter, or what we want, only what we do not want, and there in his defensive stammering, I can play my final card: You don’t know anything about me.
from The Book of (More) Delights
Anyhow, alas, thanks to my boundless, bottomless, boundaryless ignorance: goddamn and holy shit! Waxing and waning! Have you heard?!?!
Animal Rescue
The morning I found Gaspard and Vincent, I had just visited the punk house where the ex boyfriend had been staying. He had some things of mine that I couldn’t let him keep . . .
Voices on Addiction: Anchor Point
At first, sobriety feels at once like a death of a best friend, loss of comfort, and a beloved version of one’s self. On some level, it is exactly these things . . .
Speaking to Men at Parties
There are moments when the light passes just right over the high point of someone’s cheekbone and I imagine my whole life as it would have been in a different universe, tracing the events of this imaginary life from that spot on their face to my death.
We Are More: Wanting to Want: Romance and Sports Anime
I think I understand the gap between obsession and devotion, then.
Voices On Addiction: Speaking Ill of the Dead
I have always felt stuck in the quicksand of Wanting-Things-To-Be-Different.
