You meet him online. That should have been your first red flag. But you are 16 and you know everything. His name is L*, and he’s in his senior year of high school, a two-hour drive away from you. You

Something about a synaptic neurotransmitter. You won’t really understand. 

But to write We thought is a fiction.
We always felt that…the moment you write this phrase, you have lied.

We lived where we were born; we pretended it was just fine.

Our hypothetical date tomorrow is at a show for the band Tennis. I have never heard of them, but I trust him. I say I will work my magic to get us in.

If she swallows down chaos before the question is asked, let me spit mosaics in my answers

The Barrington, CT Boston Market offers the creamy richness of all Boston Market feeding centers.

It was then that they strode past me. Mid-thought, my attention snagged on the powerful wisp of her. She wore a spandex outfit—itty bitty sports bra and bicycle shorts, her lean legs sprouting from chunky Filas.

Cam asks when I am going to change my pants just to prove to his pierced girlfriend that he doesn't like me all that much. I tell him I wash them daily, but he says that doesn’t mean it’s not weird.

Before Hannah can protest, I get out of bed, put on gray and pink checkered pants and a black top. Having romantic feelings for a woman is new territory; her laugh is all I can think about.

LaJoie dropped to their knees and shouted out the phrase "Oh dear god!"

He works out of that clinic on the corner of Sydney Road, opposite the 7-Eleven. After I visit him I often walk up the road and get an okay bánh mì from the closest vietnamese bakery.

Like Richie’s “Hello,” Adele’s “Hello” is also an ode to longing.

Under the pretense of repairing things, I go to prove I am not broken.

I will never read this essay out loud, so let me take some risks:

Almond, salmon, Episcopal, peony, Adidas, melancholy, mischievous.

In my head: Owl-mund, sal-MON, epic-SKO-poll.

I add force

Still though, that’s fucked up.

I agree, I say. It is fucked up.

I stand in front of this body-length mirror. The compression vest is gone, the drains are removed, and all the cushioning gauze has been peeled away; I’ve watched video after video of other

I’ve never run for political office and have no desire to run—which is not to say that I’ve never thought about it—but I do know what it is to move, to travel, to traverse, to go around for the sake of one’s ambitions.

This sense judders through you when you collide with the snowplow truck.

The last time I dream of him, my dead ex-boyfriend asks me to stop bringing him back.

Usually, when I dreamt him alive, he didn’t speak. I’d sit next to him while he sorted mail. I’d watch him turn

When I mention this flash of sexual fluidity to people, it bothers them.

Felt, for a minute, like some façade had slipped, like a glitch in the matrix. Is this in fact the car we came in? Are we who we think we are?

I checked the rest of the house, but everyone was asleep. I had a brief moment of nothingness, of emptiness, and then terror bloomed.

On our third date, we went shopping for funeral outfits.

The following text was stripped, edited, and reassembled from the thousands of comments on a potentially illegal YouTube upload of ‘Song on the Beach’ from the movie Her in an attempt to render the