Whenever I tell people about this hunting trip, about my family’s tradition for the past ten years, I share it with a blend of defiance, pride, and defensiveness.
Wildfires ravage and Irma bears down and nuclear tests keep happening, and I am heavy bored.
The fairness and insensitivity of this feels reassuring, like weather or death. Something I cannot change. Something that does not care about me.
I cried last night. Everyone did. Three a.m. and drunk, overcaffeinated.
These millions are saving civilization, constantly and everywhere, because they are civilization.
Will Montei made me feel infinitely better about moving to college and leaving everyone behind, simply because no matter how sad and alone I felt, at least I wasn’t him.
I recently discovered the healthy, frugal, “have my shit together” magic known as a crockpot, specifically, a brown-and-tan, floral relic from my parents’ wedding that in a roundabout Oedipal way, led to the traumatization of my penis.
In urban, educated America, masculinity is fashionable only with a veneer of irony.
I had no cell phone service. No way to leave. I had ridden here in the back seat of a minivan, lurching through miles of winding and branching dirt roads, through a night black with trees and dust and stories of fights.
Mia, waitress, wants to be an actor; Sebastian, broke musician, wants to own a jazz club. But La La Land’s biggest tension happens outside the screen: an unspoken, unreferenced standoff between itself and the twenty-first century.