On the day my grandmother turned sixty-seven, we found her sprawled in her living room—eyes wide open, mouth gaping, hands half-clutching the golden knob of a wardrobe she was trying to open. Her floral blouse was smeared with coffee stains, and her body smelled of stale urine. She did not budge when we barged into her house…

I like to joke that none of the boys I liked appreciated The 1975, an alternative rock band I fell for at 16, and that’s why it never worked out with them. They were soft, intellectual boys, both too mature and too immature, hardened by some incomprehensible thing I can’t describe so I’ll settle on naming it “maleness”…

“She is so bipolar when she’s on her menstrual period”, “Are you disabled?! Kick the ball into the goal!”, “He’s crazy smart, you’d think he’s autistic” are phrases that are incorporated into daily-life conversations so casually and rather thoughtlessly. The first step to resolving an issue is acknowledging it, and this article is to state, and acknowledge, that throwing disability phrases around like metaphors and tenors is a huge issue…

New York is a wonderful place to try on new identities. New York is a place where identities are up for sale. Nine dollars. Nine dollars in my pocket, who do I want to be today? Maybe everybody loves New York so much because they can be whoever they want over there. They can change their gender, sex, their whole aesthetic. They can drug themselves, age themselves, shoot themselves, turn into a star. A star…