More often than not, on dates, I wonder when I can leave. And I don’t mean that moment when he asks for separate checks or doesn’t pay for coffee, well, doh, of course I know I won’t see the person again (Why is payment such a dealbreaker? Because this: if you can’t afford to pay for an iced tea at this point in your life? It means other things, things that affect me, things I don’t want in my life). I mean, once we’re talking. The story of his life. The way he approaches that story, the way he unravels the pieces, the way it reveals the things he’s not saying. I’m not even cynical about it; I can hear it all. And I would rather not be listening. I would actually much rather be catching up with a friend. I have enough friends that I don’t see. But. I continue to date, because I like trying to figure out where my Bashert is. It’s possible he’s in San Diego, it’s possible he’s sitting across the table for me, it’s possible he’s someone I’ve always known. I have no idea. But I’m happy to keep trying.
She’s not running.
Roxane Gay, Erica Jong and well, read it.
Don’t mess with Elizabeth Warren.
Gabourey Sidibe: “Sarcasm is my birth defect. I was born cynical.”
Jimmy Kimmel appeals to the heart.
Our interview with Ann Shoket.
Making eye contact is good for the soul.
Can a vibrator really mess with you? (Spoiler alert: hell no).
Yoko Ono is singing again.
Happiness through a feminist lens.
Leatherdykes boost the F-Word.
RuPaul bringing DragCon to NYC!
And now have a laugh with Maya Rudolph.