“I had lost my favorite enemy, and things were looking pretty bleak as a result.” A non-fiction essay on my earliest confrontation with the ambiguities of love and hate.
While dabbling in vino, German philosophy, or swaths of cashmere is all well and good, a more all-inclusive strain of luxury has been rapidly forming–one that transcends taut definition and allows for an exciting melange of things high and low, textbook-right and textbook-wrong. To put it simply: luxury has been Kanye West-ed.
To my oldest friend on her birthday: thank you for being an endless source of human-Advil to the many, many (have I said many?) friends who are lucky enough to call you one of their people—we are positively addicted, proud to be your junkies.
Inspired by the brilliant Meh List published every week in The Sunday Magazine of The New York Times, I thought I’d start crafting my own, in a similar spirit to my Dear Diary posts.
Am I convinced that eternal coupledom is THE route to take—an American Dream worth having? Not exactly. But, damn, is it an appealing ideal.
Chicago is the Michelle Branch Video That Nurtures My Soul (Or, How We Project Different #Feelings onto Different Locales)
As I’m sure is the case for all you other brothers, specific places are symbolic for me and can ignite particular moods via the simple fact of their existence. Chicago is my geographical equivalent of a giant hug, or perhaps that counterintuitive relief we feel after a body-rattling cry.
After falling for someone mainly via virtual communication, I was crushed to realize that he wasn’t the ideal type that I thought he was. Doing my best Carrie Bradshaw, I began to wonder: is pseudo-loving and losing better than never pseudo-loving at all?
You should at least concede that their cover is one of those lovely stick-it-to-the-man scenarios. The man, here, being a white-washed lovechild of privilege and tradition, which in itself has many spawn…this one in particular being the gilded laurels over which Queen Anna Wintour presides.
“I had been plopped in a daycare center for stunted women, who were to put words to feelings and revel in their expanding bellies until they could go home.” Been into doing more non-fiction short stories lately, so for better or worse, thought I’d start sharing. Apologies in advance to my parents who might cry.