There was a very childish man who spent a summer with a woman, fell in love, and said goodbye when she left to teach English in South Korea.

Since there’s no pastime like screen time, I decided to dive into my deep well of internet sedation to understand where the hours go.

Nothing is more infuriating to me when I ask for directions from point A to point B then to be instructed, “Head east.”

Forty-something emails are still marked unread because the dopamine hit comes from clicking them open, not replying.

My soft core, rose, again as a sweep of emotions turned and tumbled across—the faults, the cliffs, the shifts—parenthood’s ostensible end.

Text message strings are a lot like hotel rooms. They’re temporary, relatively easy to clean out, and progressively get more exasperating, smarmy, and damp the longer that they stay.

Though I was unaware of her passing, I awoke at that exact moment to the sound of restless wind rustling through my bedroom.

Dear Dr. Hanover, my Psychiatrist,
I wrote you an email just now that was most certainly a testament—proof!

If you’re looking to get inked this year, these are the artists to check out!