A Lemonade-inspired note on fuckboys in gentleman’s clothing.
We are what we create rings true, and thus discounts whether it actually is.
Every time a family event looms on the horizon, I’m forced into mental gymnastics: how to enjoy myself without pushing too many buttons of self-loathing.
As time has passed, so has my willingness to confront what’s been taken from us.
He sent you a gif of Shia LaBoeuf crying and told you he’s going through a lot right now.
I told myself I’d be a better person after my Dad died. This is what happened instead.
She wears her insecurity on her sleeve, but the narcissism it’s wrapped up in has colored it more prickly than pitiful.
I’ve officially lost it just enough to give the old book a shot, and I need to announce it to the world so that I don’t fall asleep on myself (and my word-riddled dreams).
Every Hebrew letter feels a bit of a torment—a reminder not just of the bad Jew I am but also the good Jew he so badly wanted to be.