Comment Sections: Where Humanity Is Lost

Moderate them or get rid of them. It’s the perfect environment for stupidity to flourish. It lacks any civil discussions or rational debate. It can raise your blood pressure or ruin your day and make you say, “Fuck you” aloud to no one but your cat peacefully sleeping on your lap. It’s full of anonymous…

The Finish Line: My Racecar Days In Kalamazoo

My first car was a stick-shift. I learned to drive that thing within the first hour of getting it. I loved blasting my Wu-Tang Forever CD and pretending I was a racecar driver through the desolate streets of Kalamazoo, Michigan. There’s nothing more frightening than a 16-year-old with a new driver’s license and love of…

I Want My Best Friend Back (Part 3)

(This essay originally appeared on Flip Collective) Part I of “I Want My Best Friend Back.” Part II of “I Want My Best Friend Back.” *** A month passed and things were starting to calm down. I packed up our Koreatown apartment and brought Jane her things. It was almost as moving out of our…

I Want My Best Friend Back (Part 2)

(Originally appeared on Flip Collective) Part I of “I Want My Best Friend Back.” *** Jane was my roommate, but more importantly—she’s been my best friend for 16 years. She started drinking heavily shortly after she met Don in 2011. For the first few months, Don was suave and charming. He sent her flowers and…

I Want My Best Friend Back (Part 1)

Originally posted on FlipCollective The 101 Freeway. Bad traffic. On the radio, the quiet hum of NPR’s All Things Considered talking about kids eating laundry pods and getting sick, because kids are idiots. My best friend, Jane, half-asleep/half-passed-out on her pillow. We’re driving to Temecula. Until now, Temecula is only significant as the name of…

It’s Hard To Be Interesting When You’re Not Miserable

(Original article posted on The Style Con) The greatest artists in the world were clinically depressed: Picasso conceived an entire collection of artwork around his sadness; his “Blue Period” was paintings of miserable people and prostitutes. Kafka was suicidal while writing The Metamorphosis, and Bukowski was such a miserable alcoholic he couldn’t help but write about…