I have a confession, one that will either make you nod in weary recognition or back away slowly while clutching your bullet journal. I am a woman who has, on more than one occasion, stood in the shower and completely forgotten if I’ve already washed my hair. The bottle of shampoo sits there, smug and …
I used to think routine was a cage. A beige, soul-crushing march toward a life where the most thrilling decision I’d make was whether to floss before or after staring into the existential void. I was a creature of chaos—a midnight scribbler, a firm believer that the muse only visited when you were slightly hungover …
I have a confession. Left entirely to my own devices, I am the sort of person who forgets lunch until 4 p.m. and then eats a bag of stale tortilla chips over the sink, calling it “dinner.” I sleep in my makeup. I find my keys in the fridge. I start 47 novels and finish …
I found it in a box of old headshots—the ones where I’m wearing a blazer I borrowed from a roommate who later moved to Philadelphia without telling me. The address book was half-filled, the spine cracked like a rehearsal script that’s been carried through a six-week run. Some entries in blue ink, some in pencil, …
The Day I Tried to Become a Bohemian I once read that Jack Kerouac wrote On the Road in three weeks, fuelled by coffee and benzedrine, the scroll of paper taped together so he never had to stop to load a new sheet. I found this deeply romantic. I pictured myself in a Parisian garret, …