If I were to describe this point in my life, the exact moment where our paths intersected and momentarily overlapped, I’d tell you that he and I were caustic. We were similar in many ways, most of which unfavorable, yet we easily understood one another, and that was hard to come in our early twenties.
My first experience with post-relationship stalking occurred when I was eighteen years old. I’d moved away from home for university, and was excited to be leaving my teenage years behind — though, as you’ll come to understand, some of it wasn’t ready to leave me.
Last year right around this time, I was ready to rip the paint off my walls. I felt like a swirling tornado of dark energy that ravaged everything it touched. The more I tried to control my anger, the more powerful and destructive it became. My fury had a life of its own, voraciously gaining traction whenever it was stirred, which happened more often than not. It was a heady, tangible thing — and it became a constant source of company.
Dating apps were just becoming popular as I was leaving singledom, and while I dabbled a bit with Tinder, I never felt at ease with it. Of course, in the years since, many new dating apps have popped up, with internet-bred relationships becoming increasingly common-place. Many (if not most) of my single friends are on dating apps, and our conversations often center around how frustrating, but convenient, this form of dating can be.
Kids can feel your frustration, especially when it’s directed at them. Now that we’ve implemented social distancing and stay-at-home orders, the effects of this pandemic are so wide-reaching that it changes the very fabric of our everyday lives. And yet, amidst this seemingly endless succession of Saturdays, I can’t help but ask myself: is this all just a significant break from real life; or, is it instead, a true glimpse at it?
It’s fascinating to discover new ways in which people and plants resemble one another. For instance, the Hoya plant occupying my living room frequently puts out long, vining tendrils, desperately searching its periphery for something to hold onto. This type of branch, often spanning three to four feet long, will grow upright or sideways, sometimes giving the plant the appearance of having a tail, and often forcing me to tread carefully so as to not inadvertently bump into it.
How Malcolm Gladwell’s theory intersects with the COVID-19 pandemic. The Tipping Point, according to author Malcolm Gladwell, is defined as “the moment of critical mass, the threshold, the boiling point.” Which basically means it’s the very moment in which things suddenly and drastically change. Gladwell then places this “tipping” theory within a larger context and breaks down the process by which something becomes an epidemic.
I used to be someone for whom love was elusive, like sand slipping through my fingers the moment I grasped a handful of it. I searched for affection in the most obscure places — combing through the blades of grass on varsity soccer fields, haunting the back corners of gastro pubs and indie hipster bars, prowling the halls of university campuses, and poring over virtual breadcrumbs tossed in my direction through text messages or MSN messenger.
Lately, I’ve been thinking about personal power, and the confidence it takes to step into my worth — as a human, as a woman, as a partner, and as a writer. For so many years I felt lucky to be here, lucky to have the ability to write, lucky for any offers thrown my way — even if they paid nothing, even if I worked much harder than I probably should’ve.
ow that allergy rates are rising, more and more schools and child-centered establishments are outright banning the presence and consumption of peanut-products, mitigating a large part of the threat from the onset and removing the burden of advocacy from the child. It’s no longer rare to hear of a child allergic to peanuts, or any other life-threatening allergy for that matter. Though willful ignorance remains, the conversation surrounding life-threatening allergies is slowly beginning to shift.
At first, I thought it all must be some sort of cruel joke. In hindsight, this would prove to be the straw that broke the camel’s back. “A good partner is someone who helps you discover all your weaknesses and pushes you to fix or change them,” my boyfriend explained to me, rather enthusiastically.
When we think of grand gestures, we can easily conjure up the iconic image of John Cusack holding a boombox above his head in the 1989 movie “Say Anything.” But what exactly do these grandiose displays of love entail, and why do they make for such a compelling narrative?
So many of us dive headfirst into romance, assuming any choppy waters will settle with time. You vow to never repeat your parents’ mistakes, yet insist on following your heart instead of your head. You get wrapped up in passion and fail to pencil in practicality.
But how can anyone blame you, you’re so in love.