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.
Searching for a meaningful bond among those who are paying to find it.
A shot from my father’s gun killed our neighbor and traced a trajectory through decades of guilt, shame, fear and anger. Unraveling the moment my family calls “the accident.”
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