Colin Farrell’s friend breakup in ‘The Banshees of Inisherin’ is eerily similar to my own. His is just more cinematic.
Where does my style begin and his taste end? My suitcase is overflowing with meaning I can’t handle anymore.
As a queer person, I’d had no role models growing up, had to stumble through every relationship, learning how to love as best I could. Dog fostering was a kind of parallel crash course.
I’m embracing the label, with all its yearning, try-hard connotations, because desire shouldn’t be embarrassing and love does require trying hard.
My identity is tied up in my singleness, my childlessness, and I’m not sure I want to let that go.
Like many immigrant daughters, I’m of a lineage of women who didn’t put themselves first.
I’m not sure I want to be vulnerable or join a community. I’m not sure I even remember how.
The group chat is a means, not an end. Not what our friendship is, but what keeps it alive.
I wondered how I would confront what I thought was my worst: my sexuality.
It was an acrimonious divorce. I wanted justice. I settled for truth.