I'm a freelance editor and nonfiction writer constantly trying to remove cat hair from my home in Portland, Oregon. I've written for Bitch Media and Tin House's blog, The Open Bar.
I'm working on a book-length essay about bisexuality, voyeurism, and how queerness presents on the page.
On Election Night, I thought again of the boy who assaulted me. When had I finally stopped blaming myself?
What kind of story would you like to write?
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