We want you to fuck with the page, not slip into it slowly like you’ve been married for twenty years.
In The New Yorker’s most recent Summer Fiction Issue, they asked some awesome writers, including Joshua Ferris, Miranda July, and Rachel Kushner to write short essays on the topic “My Old Flame.” They were so wonderful, and after a long writing drought, they inspired me to hurriedly write my own.
Do you roil at the thought of Kim’s fame-ass? Make fun of those who dare to dabble in taking pictures of their own, imperfect façade? Take a moment—lay back on a couch, perhaps, therapy-session style—and think honestly about why that might be.
After lamenting a deficit of “normal” compliments in my life, I’ve comforted myself by concluding that–while I’ll never be the Marsha Brady of the world–at least people are forced to go off autopilot when they address me.
My family would never make it onto a cereal box, but–despite lacking excessive designer clothes and expert contouring skills–we’d probably give the Kardashians a run for their money on reality television.
Traveling with an eating disorder—whether you’re in the thick of it, in recovery, or consider yourself recovered—is a loaded move. While non-ED-afflicted humans rejoice in the opportunity to let loose, indulge endlessly, and take a break from the treadmill, I find myself panicking for weeks (if not months) beforehand.
I’m of the mindset that everything happens for a reason, with the caveat of: if you search hard enough for that reason. So, I’ve been digging relentlessly to try to find one, looking inside myself with the hope that I’ll figure out what this little life hiccup wants to tell me/what I can learn. I’m realizing, instead, that I might just have to succumb to the reality that these epiphanies rarely happen right away.
I can’t really blame the show for leading me astray, after all it’s entertainment, not a guide for what to expect when you’re [not] expecting. But I can overthink it, helping myself sleep at night by mocking its insane conception of young (and, eventually, less young) women living in the city.
After seeing Boyhood last night, I was reminded of the pleasure of sitting in a dark room with strangers as a wonderful film unfolds on the screen before you, AND that, oddly, I often feel more tuned into the world when I’m tuning out.