Misread of the day: Abandon the cultural myth that all female friendships must be itchy.

We don’t always know the whole story, and the whole story isn’t always ours to know.

My thoughts are like cicadas: They burrow underground for years before returning to the surface to scream from the trees.

My life is a ripe fruit with a bruise hidden deep inside.

Some days, I feel like a paramecium lodged inside my own brain.

I’ve gone from one monitor to two. Pretty soon, I’ll be surrounded by monitors—not exactly a ring of fire, but one of heat and light.

The product of consumption attempts to consume itself.

Hayden stood on my chest this morning until I agreed to get out of bed.

I just watched a video of a pet pig being massaged with a fork.

Every day, I make sure my dog knows the love she never knew before we met.