Essay
I’ve spent most of my life reading literature that made me laugh. But something has changed.
During quarantine, I’ve been trying to remind myself that I’ve always been able to find inspiration for a better life.
I have begun to obsess about this one kiss. A kiss. What the hell difference would a kiss make?
This summer, I assigned myself the task of swimming home, moving through the neighborhoods and communities that, side by side, would bring me back to myself.
Described as a theme park necropolis, Forest Lawn Cemetery created a new template for posthumous culture in North America.
In my diagnosis, I saw the first irrefutable proof of myself. But so many others saw a referendum on what it means to be atypical.
Children like me, whose parents suffer from mental health issues, often become invisible ourselves.
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