I flew to Taiwan the year I turned thirty-six, a trip I’d booked solely for the purpose of freezing my eggs.
By farming, I connect back to my own culture. To, pun intended, my roots. To what it means to be a child of immigrants and help things grow.
Do other people ascribe “luck” to objects? I wondered. Wouldn’t it be far better to finally use this kitchen appliance and truly love it?
I blamed my mother for so many things, but I blamed her especially for being a mere mortal when what I really needed was a supreme, supernaturally benevolent being.
I’m just a girl, standing in front of a boy, asking him to overlook certain aspects of her appearance.
Of all the things that have come and gone in my life, I wanted this one thing, just one: to be a writer.
Wearing the catsuit and embodying Pfeiffer’s slinkiness as best I could in my awkward, skinny body, I understood for the first time that I could be a sexual being, not just a sexual object.
Disability is not wrong or tragic or bad, but sometimes it is a symptom of a grave injustice.
“Some memes may actually dissolve the original significance of iconic photographs and potentially degrade, rather than enhance, public culture.”
Sometimes I joke that I’m already primed for motherhood because I’m already well-versed in guilt, blaming myself for things over which I have little control.