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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