I have a favourite spatula. It’s nothing special, really—a stubby little silicone number with a wooden handle, still carrying a faint yellow blush from an unfortunate turmeric incident back in 2019. Every morning, somewhere between the first sip of coffee and the moment my brain remembers it has a body, I reach for that spatula. …
There’s a photo of me from around 1987. I’m clutching a mug the size of a baptismal font and glaring at a typewriter like it just called my mother something unforgivable. My hair suggests a family of squirrels has taken up permanent residence. The bathrobe I’m wearing looks cobbled together from several profoundly depressed teddy …
I have a confession: I own seven identical alarm clocks. Not because I’m a time-traveling sleeper agent, but because I am, deep in my bones, a person who craves routine the way a Labrador craves a dropped meatball. The trouble is, I’m also a person who believes creativity is a wild, untamable beast, best lured …
The Uncomfortable Tango of Rent and Rembrandt I was twenty-seven, sitting on a kitchen floor that hadn’t known a mop since the elder Bush was in office, staring at an electricity bill that had apparently mated with a student loan statement and birthed a litter of late fees. In the corner sat a half-finished painting—a …
Let’s get one thing straight: being broke in New York City isn’t really about deprivation. It’s about getting wildly inventive while side-stepping mild public embarrassment. I’ve killed whole afternoons looping Central Park pretending I was on a deeply urgent phone call, just to avoid admitting I had nowhere to be and exactly zero dollars. But …