It’s time for our wearied lovers to stop listing the dozens of reasons why dating a writer is somehow noble; acting as if their side of the relationship is beneficial, or even occasionally pleasant.
The Craft = Mean Girls + witchcraft
The girls used actual Wiccan rites.
Witch-off! Vicki Valencourt’s hair turns to snakes, maybe. They’re talking a lot. Lot of angst. Then all hell breaks loose. Empire Records just disappeared. VV whipped out a huge knife? INSANITY! INSANITY! Something just happened! Too fast. Not sure.
I was jealous every time a classmate broke a limb or changed the color of the bands on their braces. I wanted their apartments, their pets, their magazine subscriptions, their divorced parents, the lunches their divorced parents packed for them.
Your life becomes a constant progress of trying to sleep at night and work during the day — at least until you realize the utter impossibility of that endeavor, until you surrender to the fact that you’ll wake with full intention at 11 a.m. and instead spend four hours gazing at social media for some purpose you’ll justify to yourself somehow.
Talking about your dog or cat as if they’re a person is cool and sort of endearing. You can make them their own Facebook page and even get married to them. Having a pet in your twenties means you’re well-adjusted and have figured things out. You’re healthy now.
Even the people who don’t have style at a liberal arts college know at the very least to wear Doc Martens and a floral dress. The worst dressed person at a school like NYU or Sarah Lawrence is the best dressed person at a place like Michigan State.