Imagine you’re in bed in freshly washed sheets. You could be wrapped up, breathing slowly, content.
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“Under Review” reveals the dating life of a transgender woman in 2019.
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When I feel myself spiralling, I try to notice the small things around me, and pay close attention to them; the exact shade of blue in the sky, the feel of the chair beneath me, the motion of the traffic passing by.
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We are now reachable whether we are in the office or not, on holiday or not. The workplace is now portable, and it goes wherever we take it.
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Once a week I would force myself, no matter how much it tortured me, to stand naked in front of the mirror and point out one thing I liked about myself. Just one.
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Often there is a glaring gap between who we feel we are and who we want to be.
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I’ve imagined death so much it feels like a memory.
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Your endless love, your little bird bones, the dark green waters of your soul.
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Writing about Camp is the least Camp thing we can do. But for your edification, we’ll dip our toes into the controversial.
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HBO debuted their new period drama, Gentleman Jack, which follows the extraordinary life of “the first modern butch lesbian” Anne Lister. Anne is a top hat-wearing, cane-carrying badass who never seems to tire of getting shit done.
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I am allowed to release that rage. So that it doesn’t fester inside of us, inside my heart, where the infection of revenge once set in, a long time ago.
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I asked if you kept the old habits. You smiled without teeth and said, “the best place to hide track marks is between your toes.” You wear your wounds so plain in your messiah sandals.
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Even though local councils have nothing to do with Brexit, the conservatives are braced for a “Brexit rebellion” at the polling booth tomorrow. This presents a great opportunity to kick the tories out of local councils if we can capitalise on it.
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Satirical comedy is meant to be wielded as a weapon against those in power by those who have none. Things get dangerous when it falls into the wrong hands.
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Now, as I am one year and seven months from thirty, I understand the infinity of growing old. I imagine myself as recycled clay. Formed into this year, grabbed by another and shaped into that one—but where is the kiln? Where is the sun that dries the grapes?
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The established literary canon sucks. There, I said it. As someone who has two English Literature degrees under her belt, I can say with full certainty that the canon is tired, dusty, over-analysed, dull, and mostly white and male. Gross.
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Lizzo is visibly, meaningfully and unapologetically shattering the glass ceiling to sexy, and she’s doing it so effortlessly.
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The Inspector General (IG) recently sent out an anonymous survey within our agency regarding sexual harassment and how instances of inappropriate behavior are handled and reported. Long story short: they are not.
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It’s hard to empathize with suits and soundbites.
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I still think about the endocrinologist lifting my shirt to see how my ribs were jutting out of the skin.
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