From October, 2017

WARNING: Self-help-y

Surprise, decipherers of my manic dialect! I don’t partake in the ingestion of mind-altering substances, save caffeine and doctor-prescribed pharmaceuticals. I experimented with alcohol/weed (sorry, Mom) ages 18-21, at which point, truthfully, liquor lost its “off-limits” allure. I quit drinking — not to imply I struggled with addiction; luckily, alcoholism was never a symptom in…

“Your aesthetic is on point.”

… sayeth a stranger on the recent re: my outfit as I procrastinated in the library! What a squire. Tuesday’s ensemble: vest with bespectacled dogs clad in ski gear overlaying purple Urban Outfitters bra, high-waisted (+ high-water) “space pants,” rhinestone’d/sequined/netted floral jacket double-knotted ’round my waist, BirkenSOCKS, baseball cap, consignment-shop sunglasses I categorize as “John…

The “caterpillar-to-butterfly” effect

One proverbial autumn in my youthier youth, the mango-fruits of a transformative summer vacation shattered my reputation as a weirdo loner — the cruelest denigration, amirite? — in one fell swoop. Behold! I returneth’d to school a provocative, blonde sex ornament and my contemporaries gaped, all, DAMN, SHE GOT HOT. Then, in retaliation for their…

Loveliness & loneliness

I’ve never had a boyfriend. We could psychoanalyze why — trust me, I have — but NO NEED, because I am in love. Or, rather, I find love in reading, resonant lyrics, relationships with relatives and friends (family members both biological and acquired), et alia. We’re conditioned to believe romantic love > platonic love. We’re…

Pen-ultimate!!!

Ladies, germs and gender-nonconforming nuclei, I’ve identified of recent a grave inhibitor to my creativity (and, I’d wager, happiness) … PERFECTIONISM. I have historically been susceptible to the crushing magnitude of my own expectations, particularly apropos publication/print. Why is this dialogue/description-o-mine not extraordinarily witty in a vein reminiscent of Diablo Cody or Amy Sherman-Palladino? I’m…

So high, S O L O . . .

This week, I lurched into D.C. twice, to attend Halsey’s hopeless fountain kingdom concert and John Green’s book tour stop promoting his new novel — both unchaperoned (I’m 22), enduring pedestrian-riddled city driving and reveling in windows-down, radio-up highway driving en route. One insomniatic morn last month, I drove across town for an impulsive 0530…