I hum some secret place into being, thinking of this other me, the one that only I can see, a girl called She, who is not We, a girl who I will never be.

If heaven is tolerant and writers are allowed (bunch of liars though they are), I wonder if they gather for coffee to ponder the prose they should have written instead.

When you stand outside, you look around and find that the people you're with live on the fringes.

What is it about sadness that can be so fulfilling?

Evidence tells that black and Latina woman are more accepting of curves, and that's a good thing.

The world's waistlines are expanding, but it's an epidemic of a larger issue in terms of our bounty having become our burden.

I hum some secret place into being, thinking of this other me, the one that only I can see, a girl called She, who is not We, a girl who I will never be.