She’s so pretty and her hair is always so big and sexy, and I’ve always wondered how to accomplish these things.
I realized all of my friends who were in our mid-30s and single were trying to figure out what was wrong with us, trying to examine if we were afraid, if we picked the wrong guys, what it was and why. But by our late 30s and early 40s, a lot of us had started getting married. I was like, we’re the same people. We didn’t have a major growth experience, we just met a guy.
There is only one explanation for Grace’s weirdness in the second-to-last season.
Tom and I had been dating for about a month when the dots appeared. It was a Saturday morning and I had been lying in his bed while he showered, but when he came back into his room — wrapped in a towel but not remotely dry — he bypassed the girl and the bed and headed directly to his computer to type furiously and mumble anxiously. I watched him from across the room and waited for him to tell me what all the fuss was about. With him, there was always fuss about. Finally, I asked what was wrong.
I love how lipstick/stain looks on other ladies. I always have. The unfortunate fact of the matter is that I can’t seem to find one that looks right on me. Makeup has always been a bit of a struggle.
Before herpes, I didn’t think about my body much. But the virus had jolted me into self-awareness. I ate better. I exercised more. I felt more fragile and powerful and worthy of careful handling than ever. Herpes, oddly, did not turn me into damaged goods. Instead, it became a filter for expendable men in my life.
Over the past few years, an aesthetic we like to call “snackwave” has trickled up from Tumblr dashboards. Now a part of mainstream culture, snackwave is everywhere: it’s printed on American Apparel clothes and seen in Katy Perry music videos. It’s the antithesis to kale-ridden health food culture and the rise of Pinterest-worthy twee cupcake recipes. It’s the wording in your Instagram handle, a playful cheeseburger selfie, Jennifer Lawrence announcing on the red carpet that she’s hungry for a pizza. In snackwave world, everyone is Claudia Kishi, and your junk food drawer is also your blog.
To eat, to keep warm, to make a pot of coffee: I had to build a fire. In the morning, at night, when I was bored, when I was cold, when I was drunk: I built fires.
YouTube videos are helpful for bringing to life crucial little details, such as their voice and physical presence, “what it’s like when they enter a room.” Blogs and tweets are increasingly useful, and provide a (rather morbid) real-time ticker of their thoughts or actions. “They are keeping a record of the last things they are thinking about which is rather extraordinary.”
Spring is ramping up, summer is around the corner, and if you’re anything like me, you’re ready to drink rosé like it’s your goddamn job.
How do I stay warm, not feel like a weeble and not spend an extra 20 minutes putting on pants?
Grease is the word. It’s the word that you heard. It’s got a groove, it’s got a meaning. Grease is the time, is the place, is the motion. Grease is the way we are feeling.
Like most people, you probably stress over your choice of email sign-off more than most people. Everybody calm down. Here’s a guide to help you navigate this treacherous channel of email etiquette.
Lots of us are fucked up — different kinds of fucked up, for sure, but these invisible people she invoked, they’ve all sat where I sit, on that couch, looking for help. So we’re in this together. Only, the thing we’re in together is, as I’ve always seen it, one of the best parts of my personality. Now here was the woman I pay weekly to help me wade through my troubles telling me it’s actually a detriment.
This may sound familiar. I was in my late thirties, and I had nothing. No savings, no house, no career, no husband, no kids. You can hardly blame me for wondering, “Where did I go wrong?” I called to mind every possibility I could think of, never asking, at least for the moment, “Where did I go right?”
There’s something extremely pleasurable about buying your underwear in a four-pack, from the same store where you buy your tampons, your razors, your deodorant, and your chapstick.
Everyone has been furnished with their room key — a swipe card adorned with an image of KISS, which is also your boarding pass on and off the ship, your ticket to the KISS show, and, most ingeniously, your credit card. Well, it’s tethered to your credit card, to be charged on disembarkation. No actual hard cash ever changes hands on the ship. It’s the first of many logic-distending techniques employed to warp reality.