We are constantly letting the fear of seeming too into anything (especially those people we like to see naked) turn us into overly anxious, over-analytical people.
I have a friendship fetish: I get off to sharing people I really like with all the other people I really like.
My little sister just turned (gasp) sixteen. If I can give her any insight that might make this period of her life less bumpy, it’s this…
Running into a great old friend on the street the other day reminded me why we shouldn’t let ourselves get so lazy about staying in touch.
Society has built up a problematic narrative where the ideal woman acts in a very particular way: she doesn’t care about superficial things (make-up, fashion), yet always manages to look and feel perfect despite that. Call it Jennifer Lawrence syndrome, if you will.
With some larger life changes on the horizon, and less overall safety in the new, I’ve been gravitating towards self-protection over endless personal divulgence.
Life is a bit overwhelming right now with getting ready for a move, job searching, and continuing school, and I’ve been feeling too scattered to write anything half-decent, so forgive the blog silence for a while. I have a feeling there’s LOTS of new inspiration coming my way to make up for it.
I’m not sure what convened the other day to tear the disordered gauze from my eyes, but, on an impromptu shopping trip, I managed to see myself in a more realistic light. And, in that light, I saw a sexless, hollow creature with nothing to grab at or touch, someone who looked like she was once again becoming a shell of herself.