Somewhere between the one-dimensional BIPOC sidekick and the final, showstopping kiss, I forgot that I was consuming love stories built on exclusion.
The high-tier prizes involved top-of-the-line gender-affirmation surgery—usually stuff not covered yet by health insurance.
Men around me speak about cancel culture with such hyperbole and terror, you’d think it was a supernatural force.
When Food is the Only Narrative We Consume
Wearing My Grief On My Sleeve
Bad Friend Art
In Travel Journalism, After Every Disaster Comes “the Perfect Time to Visit”
Walking Off Grief on the Appalachian Trail
Mourning In and Out of Our Clothes
What kind of story would you like to write?
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