I mean to feel the loneliness and not try to immediately unfeel it; not try to mask its odor with some other feeling like anger, competitiveness, anxiety, ignorance, stress, arrogance, jealousy, martyrdom, depression, remorse, nostalgia, hopelessness.
Sex is a story to be told, not a number to be counted.
There is this idea that female writers’ appearances somehow are “free game” for commentary, and appraisal of a female writer’s appearance somehow equates into the worthiness of her story. This, of course, is bullshit. Total fucking bologna.