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(03/05/19 2:35am)
For me, it started with the dulcet tones of Mr. Ira Glass’ voice. From my inaugural episode of “This American Life,” I swan-dived into the world of WBEZ Chicago, a utopia of bizarre stories and transitional xylophone music. I never came back. “This American Life” proved to be a powerful gateway drug, a slightly-open window that I threw up with abandon, letting every podcast known to man wash over me in a flood of hot-takes and ads for ZipRecruiter.
(02/04/19 3:53am)
I like to think I have a base-level knowledge of proper mealtime etiquette. If you put two forks in front of me, I could guess which one is for the salad. I absolutely do not chew with my mouth open, and if Richard Gere brought me as his date to an important business dinner upon which the fate of his company rested, I think I’d be able to handle the escargot — “slippery little suckers.”
(01/15/19 4:12am)
I’ve always considered detective work to be a hobby of mine, albeit one relegated to the boundaries of my TV screen and practiced only from the comfort of my couch. From the age that I could wield a remote, Saturday afternoons hosted hours of diligent study as I watched episode upon episode of “Monk,” “Bones,” “Psych” and “Sherlock,” all of which were integral to my formation into a self-perceived investigative genius.
(12/15/18 6:06pm)
Whether it be through the Myers-Briggs test, the zodiac or the latest Buzzfeed quiz — “Cook Your Dream Pancakes and We’ll Tell You Your Best Quality” — there seems to be a modern compulsion for constant self-categorization. I’m “humble,” based on my choice of blueberry pancakes with maple-syrup, I’m an Aquarius by birth and I can’t remember my Myers-Briggs type — does the E stand for emotional? That sounds right.
(11/12/18 12:41am)
If I had a nickel for every time a breathy woman on a podcast whispered to me through my headphones that meditation would solve all my problems, I’d have enough money to build my own yoga studio — or at least buy my own mat. I’ve tried so earnestly, so resolutely to find my seat in the glistening mecca of mindfulness that everyone from my dad’s friend from college to Gwyneth Paltrow insists that I practice.
(10/29/18 4:33am)
I’m prone to passionate love affairs. My first was with John Travolta as Danny Zuko in “Grease,” followed closely by Zac Efron as Troy Bolton in “High School Musical” and my most recent was one I had with a leopard-print bucket hat. I’d become enamored of the thing when I first saw it in a promotional email from the company Ganni, a Danish brand, and my lust only grew when I finally tried the hat on in one of their brick-and-mortar stores while studying abroad in Copenhagen this past summer.
(10/15/18 3:11am)
In my transition from adolescence to quasi-adulthood, I feel that I’ve existed in a state of perpetual pageantry. Every day is a swimsuit competition. Every social interaction is a high-stakes interview. Every choice I make may propel me closer to the crown and sash, or my spotlight will dim and shut off, leaving me fidgeting in the dark. Broadly speaking, for better or for worse, I have become very conscious of my personal brand, and I tend to live my life as though my choices and values serve as a kind of cloak over my person. I’m a hopeful pageant queen, the fabric of my sparkling evening gown sewn from the squares of my Instagram feed.
(10/02/18 7:15pm)
Growing up in Charlottesville means marking the stages of my childhood not by birthdays, not by grades, but by Bodo’s orders. Cheddar, muenster and provolone on a salt bagel was an age of innocence. Turkey and provolone on an everything bagel was a time of security and confidence. The three years of tuna and cheddar on whole wheat constitute the dark ages, and so on. A Sunday morning meal at Bodo’s had the capacity to turn the tide of my existence, and I placed great weight in the syntax of my sandwich’s ingredients, as every cheese-choice and meat-option left my fate hanging in the balance.