Privilege is a right or immunity granted as a peculiar benefit, advantage, or favor. There is racial privilege, gender (and identity) privilege, heterosexual privilege, economic privilege, able-bodied...
Perhaps, then, unlikable characters, the ones who are the most human, are also the ones who are the most alive.
People will always respond differently to the story of a sexually abused third grader than they will that of a young woman who is violated by a friend at a booze-soaked house party. There is a kind of...
People like you always choose to absolve yourselves. You are complicit even if you do not actively contribute to the problem because you do nothing to solve it. I
Kindness bridges many differences too, and so does a love of One Tree Hill or Lost or beautiful books or terrible movies.
I’ve been thinking about how so much testimony is demanded of women, and still, there are those who doubt our stories. There
I’ve been forced to look at my guiltiest secrets. I’ve cut myself wide open. I am exposed. That is not comfortable. That is not easy.
In many ways, likability is a very elaborate lie, a performance, a code of conduct dictating the proper way to be.
If your man or woman is a scrub, just own it so you and your friends can talk about more interesting things. My go-to explanation is I am dating an asshole because I’m lazy.
If you are reading this essay, you have some kind of privilege.
If you and your friend(s) are in the same field and you can collaborate or help each other, do this without shame. It’s not your fault your friends are awesome. Men invented nepotism and practically l...
I was a daydreamer and I resented being pulled out of my daydreams to deal with the business of living.
I wanted him to fill the loneliness, to ease the ache of being awkward, of being the girl always on the outside looking in.
I wanted a relationship where I could be independent but loved and looked after at the same time.
I taste the idea of grocery shopping without strangers taking food they disapprove of out of my cart or offering me unsolicited nutrition advice.
I knew where danger really lurked—in the woods behind well-manicured exclusive suburban neighborhoods, at the hands of good boys from good families.
I excused myself and ran to the restroom, where in the privacy of my stall, I whispered, I beat you, I beat you, I beat you. There was fist pumping.
I don't save lives, but I try not to ruin them.
Can’t a man pay you a compliment? In truth, this is all a symptom of a much more virulent cultural sickness—one where women exist to satisfy the whims of men, one where a woman’s worth is consistently...
Angry women are always the villains.