She has boxes of recipe cards; mostly I know their stories and not their flavors. She needs to know what I cook for dinner regularly; she eats a dinner of nibbles and stolen bites. She tells me that sugar is toxic and will cause irreparable harm to my body; she sends me a box of Christmas cookies. Scrumptious little crystals that can tear at my blood vessels from the inside.
The incredibly true adventure of one woman just trying to find a fcking menstrual cup that would work with her vagina. (Spoiler: she found one!)
“Zoey and I tried to feed our cravings for simple American cuisine, but despite our clever substitutions and meticulous adjustments and innovative ingredients from the bazaar, nothing tasted quite right. Not bad, just not what we’d been looking for.”
“These drawings were done during the two year period that my wife, Sarah, and I were trying to get pregnant. So much has changed in my life since then. These doodles sat, almost forgotten, for almost a decade.”
“I am 12. I have never thought of the idea of being gay. I am the only one being called gay at school, that I know of, and I am learning very quickly that it is the worst thing one could possibly be. It feels contagious, like I’m walking into school every day with a giant, hideous cloak of gay-ness, and everyone knows it.”
One of the most annoying things I have heard during this process of figuring out what to do and how to react to the FOSTA-SESTA prohibition deal is “Don’t panic.”
I was just a closeted teen lesbian, wishing on every star in the galaxy that I could one day waltz with Jennifer Lopez!
Sometimes being queer and black, bisexual and biracial, feels like contradiction, like too many things, and sometimes I’m not sure that I’d recognize myself if I walked by.
In which a debate over body hair pushes a white mother and her brown daughter to the limits of mutual understanding.
Before Angela Lansbury told women they were partly to blame for sexual assault, she helped me with my imposter syndrome.
I talked to several smart, artistic, and wonderful inked-up queers in my life about what inspired their body art.
I was a newly minted queer and everything I knew about queerness was rooted in coming out. I’d heard about the relief that came with coming out from everybody. If TV was to be believed, I would feel free even as my parents stopped looking me in the eye.
I changed. But it was a gradual process, in the way a forest becomes stone. Petrified forest of a body.
Depression is not forever because it always ends, and depression is forever because it always comes back. It won’t work if I only want to stay on the days when my brain breaks through the muck. Turn Out The Lights is a meditation on wanting to stay on the very worst days.
“I watched her zip up her white dress in the mirror; I watched her cross and uncross her legs; I watched her, and my friends watched her, and in the movie we were watching the other characters, men and women, watched her. I hated her so much, and so purely, with such satisfaction. I couldn’t look away.”
My nails may contribute to the erasure of my queer identity, but they represent a departure from following other people’s rules — and instead listening to my own voice.
It’s where I keep my most precious treasures.
Straight fanfiction? I don’t know her.
Fitting into Los Angeles wasn’t going to happen for me. Or so I thought, until I stopped trying.
“Four-and-a-half minutes was all it took to throw me back into this huge river of feeling, and it was exhilarating and rewarding and made me feel light and warm in a place that had been cold and damp for a long time.”