The Best Time I Got Sent to "Pray-Away-the-Gay" Bible Yoga Camp

The yoga class was being hosted in Chinatown, something that seemed fitting; the universe has a sense of humor like that. I walked past my favorite dumpling place and zipped and unzipped my leather jacket as I walked. It was 10am and Chinatown was pretty much deserted. I had a lot of space to think. Yoga. Me. Again. I wonder if I’m going to cry in the middle of Downward Dog. READ MORE

Spell Book of Beauty

I’ve talked about makeup as magic before—it bleeds through my work. Sometimes I take the message literally and make beauty a ritual to do in the dark. And you know, it’s always worked, even if not entirely in the ways you would expect it to. Here are a few of my favorite spells. READ MORE

Lessons My Closet Taught Me

I just came home from a weekend stranded because two trains caught on fire. Now I am too tired to crawl into bed so I am lying on the floor of my closet. My delicious, walk-in closet, as big as my room, bigger than the studio apartments my friends own. You have to walk through it to get to my room. My walk-in closet makes the increasing chances of death by flaming subway train (or two) seem reasonable to me. My walk-in closet with a rug thick as a blanket. I lie on it and stare at my clothes like they are my psychoanalysts. They are. READ MORE

Real Perfumes For Fictional People

When I remember AP English classes, I don’t necessarily remember the details of the books I read, but snippets of descriptions. The sickly sweet vanilla decay of Miss Havisham and her wedding despair. Wilted roses and arsenic, the dead romance and salted berries of Hill House. Even when I’m reading a guilty pleasure novel (no pleasure is guilty, though, to be honest)—I like to imagine the smells. Smells promote fantasy; they're all about desire. READ MORE

Commodity Fetish: This Is Not Really What a Feminist Looks Like

There’s a special drawer in my closet dedicated to lost causes, the clothes I will never wear again but that I can’t find it in me to donate or throw away. They are all, invariably, the slogan shirt—cotton shirts that scream “Fuck H8,” “This is what a feminist looks like,” folded right next to shirts from Hot Topic that say in disparaging gray on gray, “I listen to bands that don’t even exist yet.” Words, words, words. Their sentiments are the same to me in hindsight, really. There were a few years of my life where I wore my politics quite literally on my sleeve. READ MORE