His chains were just a service charge to be around him. Be enlightened, be complimented, be loved, and just accept his chains as jewelry.

As I close my eyes and let the Valium seep into my bloodstream under my tongue, I imagine my happy places, just like my therapist told me. I let the tears fall from under closed lids like rain droplets from a swollen cloud. I let my mother hold me. I let the nurses watch meContinue reading “Orange Sherbet & Lemon Ice”

This is what we call: a brain dump. The idea of being a creative is a pretty one. Artists with their hair in shaggy updos, paint staining the insides of their fingernails as they tell you about their new project. Poets furrowing their brows as they stare into their Moleskin on a park bench, armedContinue reading “Mild Neuroticism AKA Being a Writer”

I am going on my fourth year of living in chronic pain, and I can’t quite seem to understand how I’ve done it. I could tell you a few, practical reasons like my mother bringing me food in bed, doctors plunging needles into my muscles, medications that have just pickled my body into a stateContinue reading “How to Drive a Broken Car”

People ask me all the time if I was a sad kid. That’s their way of asking if I’ve always been depressed or had these never-ending thoughts that eat me alive. Although my parents would probably say “no, it’s the god damned social media! She was never like this!”, I would tell you otherwise. IContinue reading “$110/ Session: How To Be a Therapist”

People ask me about my hobby every time I bring it up. “Job” sounds too much like a seventeen year old trying to tell you she’s one of the major music journalists of the time. “Hobby” sounds like I’m belittling the hours of work I put into my site, so take your pick as toContinue reading “The Reason Behind Rocka”

There are many men who come into the coffee house on a daily basis. The lonely soldiers with a keen eye for the pretty potential wives. The businessmen who orders cappuccinos because it sounds professional, meanwhile not knowing what they’re ordering. There’s the teenage boys seeking dope in the form of 2,000 calorie drinks, runningContinue reading “Steve & The Painfully Hot Hot Chocolate”

When I was fourteen, my high school made me read Chaim Potok’s “The Chosen”, a painfully long novel about two boys in Brooklyn who belonged to different sects of Judaism. It was grueling to get through. I remember the pages softly leaving marks on my stomach as I read, sprawled out on a lawn chairContinue reading “Crushes, Boys, and Growing Pot”