An Ariana Grande concert in Manchester. A night out with the girls. A night you dragged your Mom (Mum) out to. A night of fun. Oh what a night. I was on the couch, working, when the NY Times news alert popped up on my screen. Gobsmacked. Sickened. Sad. Where does a mind go? Inward, to self. Fabien, on foot, to his teenaged daughters, on the streets of Paris, in the wake of the Bataclan. Kris with The Tween at Taylor Swift, One Direction, Jonas Brothers. The bands of youth. Of fun. Of abandon. Oh, the horror of the terrorist attack, it’s reverberations profound.
Monica Lewinsky: “I ceased being a three-dimensional person. Instead I became a whore, a bimbo, a slut and worse.”
Drew Barrymore is making a mag.
I love #Iamwhatsunderneath.
Resurrection of a 1972 essay called “Notes of a Recycled Housewife.”
When intellectuals bicker.
And of course, after whining about writers block, I stumble upon this hilarious ode to a writer’s process.
Peeing. Yes, peeing.
The sounds of Oooooh yes baby are an elixir to my ears.
And now have a laugh with Josie Long.