I didn’t ask to be born 20 years ago, but for whatever reason — whether it’s to write books or make ice cream or do whatever else fortuneteller gypsy lady saw me doing in the future — the universe decided to bring me here.
And for that, I am grateful.
It’s a Wednesday in early May — the first day of finals at Boston University — and I’m sitting cross-legged on the lawn outside of the College of Communication. I have my first final in an hour, and my friend is on her way to meet up with me for some last minute studying. We both know we’re more […]
We long to bend time like the Twizzlers we wrapped around our fingers when we were little, to turn seconds into eternities, to challenge the sunset to a race each night and shout, “We are here. We are breathing. We are alive.”
Mr Umbilical Cord Cutter, whoever you are (who even cuts umbilical cords?), you didn’t quite get it right.
Nope. You goofed.
You definitely left one too many strands intact. And now, thanks to you, I am still attached to my mama.
It’s a conversation point. I get it. And I appreciate the effort. But can we please talk about something other than potential internships and job opportunities and summer courses?