Decked out in graphic T-shirts from Abercrombie with roll-on-glitter covering my eyelids and a big smile sporting a whole lot of colorful metal, I thought I was hot shit. Now, I have no idea what I was thinking.
I don’t know what perfect is. I don’t know what it means to me anymore, so I won’t even pretend to know what it means to anybody else.
Living in Crown Heights would be akin to re-entering the closet, five years after having emerged from it. “Could you do that?” my mother asked me.
It happens all the time: when I go out to a club, party, bar, or any event where alcohol is present and mention I don’t drink, people seem to take it as a challenge.
I’ve been thinking a lot about this interview with Lisa Kudrow about the nose job she got when she was in high school.
The art of seducing women is a game that anyone can easily master, given the appropriate level of know-how to executive the right moves at the right moments.
“You’re the Jedi pooper,” my boyfriend declared roughly six months into our relationship. He was referring to the fact that I’d managed to duck detection while going number two for an entire half year.
It’s been a long minute since I’ve kissed anyone. So… when the opportunity came up recently, you have no idea how much I wanted to kiss her.
Three episodes in one day is nothing. Four is impressive. Five is rare. You’ve done… seven.
Look at what you want to perpetuate to other people, when you yourself can’t find the words. What strikes you most is who you are.
First off, let me say that there is no bigger fan of Home Alone than myself. I’ve seen it more times than you’ve probably seen your mother’s face so trust me when I say that I’m not slamming the movie in any way.
