Like a curious child who’s just discovered the versatility of wondering “Why?” the shadows will keep creeping in until, eventually, you can’t avoid them.
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. Today fashion week, Chrissy Teigen, and rapper beef are feeling rather meh.
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.
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.
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.
The pain felt when realizing someone only talks to you when they’re sad is quite specific. It comes on slowly, until, suddenly, you’re faced with weighty questions re: what is friendship, in the vein of Seneca (but with decidedly more estrogen).
A love letter to Almost Famous, one of the many pieces of art that helped inform my character when I had zero sense of who that character was, or could one day be.
Death is a situation that we’re forced to absorb, and to watch others surrender to. It’s one of the few real facts of life, but its fidelity isn’t sweet, like a recurring rash with no known cure.
Is not being able to bridge the gap between yourself and someone else the loneliest feeling? I’ve been revisiting this question a lot lately, because amidst the current chaos of my life I figured some extra existential dread couldn’t hurt.