Boy 1 asks if my writing is real. I ask him to define real and he asks if it really happened. I tell him whether or not it really happened doesn’t make it less real. He says that doesn’t answer his question.
Boy 2 asks if I will write a story about him. He seems hopeful, so I don’t tell him a starfish would make a more intriguing protagonist.
Boy 3 also asks if I will write a story about him, because if so, he needs to approve the concept first. He says he doesn’t want millions of people reading…
Several weeks ago I discussed my toxic relationship with vanity. In our modern world, natural beauty is a mere starting point, and countless options to improve what the Good Lord gave you lie at our fingertips. Well, assuming you have the funds. Or don’t mind skimping on food or electricity for a week. Anyway, here’s everything I’ve done to look hotter!
Disclaimer: I share this list for entertainment. I am not encouraging any of these enhancements. Actually, consider yourself fortunate that you’re not a vain bimbo like myself.
I wasn’t sure if I’d include braces in this list because they…
Yesterday I learned about one of my readers.
Allegedly, this reader is my ex’s friend. Or my ex himself. Honestly, I’m leaning towards the latter, but we’ll give his story the benefit of the doubt.
I, of all people, understand the gravity of stories.
Here was his: in a previous article, I mentioned a detail about an ex’s sense of humor. Emphasis on mentioned because it wasn’t the article’s premise. I merely alluded to the detail to drive the essay’s point.
My ex told our mutual friend that one of his friends sent him the aforementioned article, and he felt…
I’ve heard the cliché “be yourself” since I was in kindergarten, but I didn’t actually do it.
In my defense, I didn’t know myself. I mean, I did, on some level, but “myself” was young and undeveloped. And confusing. Instead of learning myself, I gravitated towards identities I wanted to embody. “Myself,” without any extrinsic influence, wasn’t enough for the cool girls. Or guys. Upon this realization, why would I want to be myself? I wanted to be accepted. And liked.
My shyness was so debilitating that it prevented people from forming any opinions about me. They couldn’t like or…
I like to think of myself as an open book.
Considering I publish most of my life on the internet, the claim is fairly accurate. I share a lot.
But I don’t share everything. I’ve made mistakes. I have regrets. I have memories so unnerving that I hesitate to vocalize them, as I’m trying to forget they happened.
Perhaps I still haven’t made peace with all of my past.
My best friends know these stories. These are the friends who were in my life when they transpired. …
what happened to the way
my skin felt like velvet under your
fingertips dancing along my ribs
my body melding to yours like
a gold lock and key when you
said you were made for me
My love, you
told me my voice sounded like
a clarion call summoning you home
drowning the Greek chorus which
unfurled your psyche’s demons
I used to be the lullaby you
conjured while awake
My love, do my eyes no longer glimmer like emeralds nor my lips taste like strawberries does my laugh now reverberate like an alarm and my touch repel…
Several weeks ago, I started an OnlyFans account.
In case you’re unfamiliar, OnlyFans provides a platform for creators to post content and charge users for access. The site collects twenty percent of revenue, and as for the content itself, technically, anything is fair game. If you want to post videos of yourself baking banana bread or playing the banjo, that’s your prerogative. While I cannot confirm what percentage of miscellaneous content OnlyFans contains, I can assure you it’s not the bulk. Or a significant fraction. That’s not what the website is notorious for.
Rather, OnlyFans is a haven for sex…
When I was ten years old, I went to summer camp and caught my first crush. The boy didn’t like me back. Well, he hardly knew I existed, despite my feeble attempts at eye contact during the nightly campfires. I watched him flirt with the popular girls and prayed he would eventually notice me. He never did, and his indifference (blended with my newfound insecurity) tasted like burning wood.
Last Saturday I ate at the best steakhouse in the city, but all I could taste was the burning wood wafting through the air. I should’ve been focused on my handsome…
I’ve dated a bunch of assholes.
By dated, I also mean not dated, as in opened up to, ate pizza, drank wine, and fooled around with, but absent of the label. With some of these assholes I denied the label, because — well — these guys were assholes, after all. With others, though, I would’ve sacrificed my big toe to receive that “girlfriend” status.
Don’t ask about my taste in men — I don’t want to talk about it.
As for the individuals who did grant me that coveted title, I learned the satisfaction was hardly worth the anguish. …
I have a few pet peeves.
Okay, by a few, I mean a litany.
None were my choice. Actually, I wish I could opt out of them because my life would be a heck of a lot simpler. You think I choose to be frustrated by the most inconsequential actions? You think I like this?
I try to search for the good in things. I’m an optimist; that’s what we do. The bulk of my pet peeves offer my life zero value, but my bigotry intolerance cost me one relationship. My ex-boyfriend disclaimed “no homo” any time he’d compliment a…