I hid behind instruments, computers, Whitney’s voice, Prince’s guitar. I sat in front of my computer surrounded by cassettes, illegally downloading songs, awkwardly whispering “I love you more than I know how to explain and I’m scared so here’s a mixtape I made you.”

Tell yourself that you’re not like one of those chain smokers, that you can stop whenever you want. Start smoking American Spirits, so it’s like, not even that bad for you because it’s natural, or organic, or something. You forget.

I stopped hiking the Pacific Crest Trail in 2017 because of toxic masculinity and bro culture in the hiking community. It exists, it’s shitty, and it fucked me up.

“Every day since my father died has been at least a little fucked up. There is no such thing as a non-fucked up day when you are a Daddy’s girl without a father.”

“In the two weeks I’ve been on the road I’ve learned to be silent and reverent in the face of nature, to see myself in mountains and peel away the layers that tug me toward them, to feel at home in endless waves of grain, to become someone new in every new place.”

The exploitation of love, anxiety and poverty are the driving force behind another made up moneymaking holiday. ‘Merica!

The taco truck isn’t f*cking around. What do you want? A taco? The people working in the taco truck want you to have that taco. (Eight Honest Things About New York City according to someone who was there for like, three weeks.)