Writer & Other Things.
I read this at Tweeting & Deleting a few weeks ago. I prefaced it by telling the audience that I wrote it over a year ago when I was still living in Boston, miserable and hoping to mend some of that misery by fucking a nineteen-year-old white rapper. I would like to think that I have changed…
On Saturday mornings I like to move through each room in my little apartment letting the light in. I’ll open the front door and let in the sounds of neighbors and birds chatting. It’s inaudible noise that’s comforting in its own weird way.
Her name was Chloe and it felt a bit too cute and too wholesome given the situation. It was the night of my 33rd birthday and I wanted to die. It was the first birthday after moving to Los Angeles the year before and I was worried that I had made a mistake. I worried that I had…
The Kübler-Ross model is fine or whatever, but this is grief to me.
I’ve been moving some of my Tumblr essays over to Medium. Here’s one I’m proud of but one that also feels very far away.
