Sometimes I’d tell myself that since I didn’t drink alone, or every night, or whatever other random barometer I chose, it wasn’t a problem, but it was. It didn’t matter how much I was drinking per se, but that I was drinking for the wrong reasons.
This morning, I stepped outside my apartment on Williamsburg’s busy Metropolitan Avenue to find my worst nightmare come true: my discarded bra, t-shirt, gym shorts, empty CD cases and other bits of garbage I’d carefully placed in a plastic bag were strewn across the grate in front of my building.
What those who aren’t highly sensitive don’t understand is that tears are not a weapon being wielded at them, but an emotional defense mechanism.
We’re living in a time when many of us, no matter what our jobs or home life are like, feel increasingly pulled in many directions.
If it sounds unreal that The Dress could be an active participant in a steamy, very explicit story, Tingle makes sure to set the scene perfectly.
It’s pained me to realize how much I relied on sweets as a stand-in for words. He knows I love him—we tell each other this daily—but I still feel the need to somehow prove it with actions.
The problem isn’t that I don’t love what I do for a living, but that I’ve built myself a career where I feel guilty when I’m not working.
I’m far more interested in the impact of Fifty Shades of Grey on discussions of sexuality than the impact of Christian’s whip on Ana in the movie.