Go into any restaurant at two p.m. and you’ll find it packed with people having a four-hour lunch date. You look around and just think to yourself, who are YOU screwing to be here in the middle of the afternoon instead of at work?
“Well I was thinking… I’ve got two weeks to kill in London and I haven’t arranged anywhere to stay yet. Do you think it would be too weird to ask Dan if I could stay on his couch?” She turned to me abruptly, whisk in hand, dripping water on the lino. “Kat you’re single now, you can do whatever the hell you like,” she said seriously.
In my first four weeks here I have met five writers who say they don’t write. I’m starting to get it—it’s hard to tell people you’re an artist when you live in a place where there are a lot of people making art and getting paid to do it. Living among writers who have books and publishing contracts can be intimidating. It can make you think there is a good reason why it hasn’t happened to you.
It’s A-OK to make out with your ex-stepbrother at weddings, play footsies with him under the dining room table, and correct his age-appropriate date when she misquotes Hamlet. Seriously. Your dad won’t even mind.
Dudes don’t really know what to do with non-dudes. They study them curiously and ask questions before secretly writing them all off as “emo”. By the way, emo is a blanket term used by normies to describe everyone who’s not exactly like them.