The Real Me
The internet is an unrelenting enabler of our flaws and an unforgiving archive of them—so should you google your new love interest, or hold off? And what if they google you first?
The internet is an unrelenting enabler of our flaws and an unforgiving archive of them—so should you google your new love interest, or hold off? And what if they google you first?
When your name prompts questions in several continents, how you answer—and whether or not you stick an accent above the “a”—says a lot about who you are.
When you fall for someone, you fall for everything that comes with them: their beliefs, their passions, and American history’s most infamous typewriter.
It begins as a dull ache, then the skull becomes hot and brittle, then the neck stiffens—and then there’s no escaping a migraine. A search for relief, temporary or otherwise.
When your life is opened in front of you, all your old attachments shucked off, the task of finding a new ending can be as simple as handing over a bag of guns.
Even if you grow up crushing on the jets in Top Gun—and not Tom Cruise—it can be tough to preserve a dream of defending your country from a plane. But some girls do.
A mouth guard can do more than save our enamel from nighttime gnashing. It may also shield us from our daily anxieties.
A happy cul de sac experiences its first affair. Soon every living room—every computer screen—reverberates with news bulletins. Even for the Facebook generation, divorce comes with surprises.
Manhattan is rife with lumberjacks, Los Angeles is hot for Appalachia, and the latest trend in pornography is cabins. Yes, cabins. But when a woman leaves New York for a log structure of her own, a metamorphosis occurs.
When a voiceover artist temporarily loses the use of her primary asset, the struggle back to speaking unearths what’s gone unsaid for too long.