Going through puberty as an asexual person often felt like I was playing a board game and everyone had the instructions but me.
Why not form friendship around a love of good drink, openness, and a desire to treat each other with fairness?
How do we match our desires with our demands? I didn’t have the language to ask.
Even on my worst day as a writer, I’m closer to the creative life I dreamed of at eighteen than ever before.
As the plane began to taxi, the first line of the comic Riri Williams: Ironheart #1 danced in my mind: “I was never meant to fly.”
They say: I have to be honest, seeing that little girl and all that brown skin, for a second it was terrifying. Sometimes you forget people can look like that. No pink anywhere. Except her nails.
I feel what I feel, and I cry in the shower with a beer, but the week before I turned thirty, I felt nothing.
“A smell of burning flesh fills the theatre. I was expecting the smell of blood—its rich, metallic, almost bitter-tasting organic scent.”
“For this is the thing with secrets: They are thrilling to a child who has lived his life only in the open.”