Let’s be clear: There is no hangover cure. Anyone who claims to have never had a hangover is either a) a liar, b) a teetotaler, or c) a responsible drinker. I’m none of those things, most days, despite effort, and the number of times I’ve searched for “how to cure a hangover” in the harsh light of a weekend morning is embarrassing the older I get, so manage your expectations.
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I pushed him so he glided through the fish, the eels, the boxed-in worlds of blues.
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Finding joy in the now, even as death and difficulty mark the days, is possible, a choice, and a practice.
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Nineteen is a book that’s by turns smart, sad, and scathing.
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“Was it vodka?” Mama said. Her voice had cracks in it. Why ask? She knew.
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James Brown and Patrick O’Neil discuss WRITING YOUR WAY TO RECOVERY.
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Andrea Actis discusses her debut book, GREY ALL OVER.
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Elizabeth Gonzalez James discusses her debut novel, MONA AT SEA.
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In this book we are taken by all three: language, plot, character.
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Television babysat our family—our thirteen-channel set, reception via a rooftop antenna.
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I grieve my father’s disembodiment. It is my grief inheritance.
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It hadn’t felt like teasing. It felt the way it always did these days—that I had disappointed her.
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The toll I took on people I love can’t be measured. But I want to know.
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For years, decades even, my father tried to escape meth’s hold.
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There are many ways to be ripped to shreds.
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I was fine. No one and nothing could hurt me.
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Melissa Faliveno discusses her debut essay collection, TOMBOYLAND.
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Secrecy stitched us a fraudulent reality. Denial masqueraded as hope.
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There is no finality to this grief. Only a series of losses, compounded.
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Erica C. Barnett discusses her debut memoir, QUITTER.
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I needed my beauty to be invisible, either accidental or not at all.
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The marijuana shop shimmers from the abyss, a glowing green jewelry box atop the hill.
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Drunk women are targets. Drunk men can be anything.
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A Rumpus series of work by women and non-binary writers that engages with rape culture, sexual assault, and domestic violence.
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My sobriety is still a mystery to me. Forty years this December.
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My family rarely throws the word addiction around. If we do, it is whispered.
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Why was he so broken? And why did his broken make me feel broken, too?
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