It was that female art of multitasking, he would conclude, that witchy capacity that girls possessed, that allowed them to retain dual and triple threads of attention at once. Girls could distinguish constantly and consciously between themselves and the performance of themselves, between the form and the substance. This double-handed knack, this perpetual duality, meant that any one girl was both an advertisement and a product at any one time. Girls were always acting. Girls would reinvent themselves, he later thought, with a sour twist to his mouth and his free hand flattening the hair on his crown, and boys could not.
We all survive more than we think we can.

Last night I threw a rock into the Charles and said “fear” and that was the thing I was determined to let go. I had eaten a milkshake almost wordlessly after work, spooning it into my mouth on a park bench under string lights in Harvard Square. It was hot and the air smelled like vomit. My friend and I walked out to the river then and sat on the ground and looked at the water. I cried, and then my friend put rocks into my hands and told me to say something I am frustrated with and throw. I was tired of crying so I did it. I don’t remember what the first thing I said was. We took turns naming our battles small and large and throwing rocks. There were so many things.

It can be exhausting to be a person who cares this much. I miss the easy rhythm of Chapel Hill and the lilt of its whispering leaves, its wholesome greenness and bricks and bikes. I am tired of doubting myself. I am tired of thinking the worst of my work. I am tired of this jagged routine. I am tired of people’s cruelty. What I want is something sweeter, softer, calmer, something that leaves me feeling comfortable at the end of the day. I don’t need total stability; the thrill of work is often in the high-pressure. It’s the pressure I put on myself that I want to ease. I do not need to be perfect. I am enough.

I threw rocks into the river because even though I know what I should be doing, I don’t do it. I threw rocks into the river because we often know what we need and neglect ourselves. I want to remember that I am enough, that doubt is okay, that my worries are okay. What I want to let go of is fear.  

If the right someone makes me laugh and think and smile when I least expect it, if they are all too often on my mind, if I want to take care of them and be taken care of by them, if I think about the softness of their skin and the coolness of their lips, if I can’t or won’t imagine not having them in my life, I don’t care what gender they are. This is just me. I understand that this is all so very individual. We want what we want across the spectrum of sexuality. We’re wired how we are wired.

Got called a “stone-cold ice witch” today.

Even the days, sliding one into the other, languorous and limpid, the sun lingering until very late, seemed to be waiting. There was a stripped-down quality to her life, a kindling starkness, without parents and friends and home, the familiar landmarks that made her who she was.
56 plays

Harper Lee — Little Green Cars

This is the sound of driving back from an assignment in a tired old Jeep, shuddering so hard on the turns I think it’s going to crumble in my hands, 90 degrees outside, no AC, sweat under my arms, stuck in ceaseless Boston traffic, tired from the 10-hour days and hungry after another skipped lunch and weary from covering nothing but death and trauma, but still holding onto something good. 

stuff I spent money on this week, or, a case study in being 21 and 11 months

- black beans and brown rice (every meal): like $2 total
- approximately 12 books that I did not need from goodwill: $5 
- a burger: $20!!! at a terrible sportsbar!! just to hang with fellow interns!!
- multiple cups of tea so I could use stores’ wifi, bathrooms and electrical outlets: $12
- a chicken salad sandwich from 7/11 that came in a plastic box, eaten on a stranger’s stoop while covering a story about two young boys who were almost burned alive by their babysitter: $3
- 900 beers: all of my money

Writer, reader, journalist. 21.

Into books, burritos, aimless walks and front porches.