Darkness, my old friend

"High-functioning depression" is such a flattering phrase. It makes what I have sound like a gift or a prize, not a weight. It's sometimes called chronic depression, or persistent depressive disorder, abbreviated as PDD in the literature, but I prefer the old term: "dysthymia," with its Greek roots. It sounds lovely.

When I first started seeing a therapist, I tried to quantify my emotions. I downloaded various apps that asked me to rate my mood each day: on a scale from 1 to 10; using various  shades of red, orange, yellow, green; a happy face or a frowny face or somewhere in between. I didn't know what I was doing wrong. One day, she finally broke it to me gently: "While other people can rate their happiness from 1 to 10, you may never get past an 8 or 9, no matter what." How crushing, to be told the truth.

That's what dysthymia is. It cheats me of my upper register, makes ecstasy and exhilaration the stuff of fiction or other people's lives, never my own. It means that if I had to hold tight to a single truly happy memory to ward off a horde of Dementors, I couldn't save myself. It isn't soul-crushing despair, but it makes me wonder sometimes if I have a soul at all.

It's boring, is what it is, honestly. I don't cry much. I don't turn to self harm or substance abuse or hypersexuality to cope. I mostly lie in bed and stay there. I mostly lie to my friends and say I'm just tired. Sometimes I'm sort of a downer at parties, but most of the time I'm not. Mostly I feel like I'm waiting and waiting for something that will never come, but there's nothing to do but hope without expectation.

I'm never not a little bit depressed. Sometimes I'm a little more, but never any less.

To some people, this sounds unthinkably bleak. Please accept my sincere congratulations on your capacity to feel joy. To some people, this doesn't sound that bad at all, relatively; if so, I'm sorry. There are much harder, uglier, worse ways to live, but this is mine.

Today is World Mental Health Day, but so is tomorrow and the next day and every day after that for anyone living with chronic mental illness. Today and every day, I love you and am here for you. Thank you for being here for me.

A long depression.

I'm writing this on a Friday night, sitting in bed with wet hair after a shower. I tend to shower at night to keep my morning routine as low-maintenance as possible, as it was this morning, when I hit the snooze button a few times before getting dressed and heading straight out the door to work. I did some reading and went through my emails during my break, then finished up with my last student of the day and closed the tutoring center. I picked up some groceries and made pasta for dinner. It was an unremarkable day, but it was only possible because I took my pills this morning.

I've spent a lot of time thinking about how to "come out" about my depression, and I've worried for a while about whether that's an appropriate phrase for it, so much so that this post has been waiting in my drafts folder for nearly three months as I struggled to find better words. After all this time, those are still the best words I have to describe swallowing my fear of the consequences as I share a part of myself that I no longer want to hide and hope that I'm met with understanding. Forgive me for taking so long to say anything; I spent a long time trying to admit it to myself first.

Every doctor I've seen has asked, first of all, "When did you begin to feel this way?" The neat answer is late 2013, while I was enrolled at the University of York for my Masters; the messy answer is that I've felt this way for a very long time, and the origins of my depression are as inscrutable to me as the origins of the universe. By the time I first tentatively sought help in January 2014, I had already forgotten what I had ever felt like before I felt "that way," and I had started to doubt that I would ever feel any other way. I went to my university's counseling services, where I leaked a steady stream of tears for an hour as I confessed all the ways I had ceased to function. Basic tasks – showering, cooking, getting dressed, washing the dishes – became daunting obligations that I increasingly avoided. Speaking to colleagues, professors, potential friends made me feel small and unworthy of their notice, so I withdrew from social contact and watched relationships develop around and without me. The thought of leaving the confines of my room, let alone the house, paralyzed me at the edge of my bed, unable to face the outside world. I ate too little and slept too much, hoping that if I simply waited long enough before waking up, the knots in my stomach and the fogginess in my brain would have passed, but it never did. Worst of all, my work suffered. The one thing I had come to do – earn a degree – became impossible as the days passed and my books remained unopened, my notebooks blank, and my desire to engage with anything other than the nothingness of sleep completely extinguished. I requested an extension on both of my autumn term papers, and ultimately turned in two essays that I should have been too ashamed to submit – but by that point, I had lost the capacity to feel shame or any other real emotion at all.

I started seeing a local doctor, a general practitioner who specialized in student health. (Thanks, NHS!) I cried in his office the first day too, because he used the words I'd been afraid to acknowledge: "Depression." "Generalized anxiety." "Cognitive impairment." "Mental illness." He wore a suit jacket and silver-rimmed glasses and I trusted him implicitly when he assigned to me terms I had previously only studied in textbooks. He gave me a diagnostic questionnaire to bring with me at a later appointment, but he also prescribed medication immediately, because it didn't really matter whether I checked "Sometimes," "Often," or "All The Time" for symptoms that were already obvious in my pathetic expression. Those first pills didn't do much, at least not more than I could have skeptically written off as the placebo effect at work, nor did the second round at a higher dosage. I hung on, dully going through the motions of being a student while waiting for a light to break through the clouds. Switching to a different medication almost immediately effected a slight but noticeable change, as if I'd been trapped in a dark room with my eyes squeezed shut but had the courage to open them again; I was still stuck in the dark, but it felt like I could now start to look around and faintly recognize the outlines of things around me.

It wasn't enough, though. I kept acting like nothing was wrong, feigning an outward semblance of normalcy, which was easy enough because of that distance I had established from anyone around me who might have noticed anything wrong. It seemed, during a period of deeply diminished rational thought, like a necessary form of self-preservation, though anyone with common sense intact would have realized that isolation could only exacerbate my helpless, drowning feeling. My friends at home had some sense of my struggle, but there's only so much encouragement that can be conveyed across an ocean. My boyfriend at the time knew as much as I could bring myself to share with him, and his comfort and support kept me afloat, but one person can never wholly bear someone else's weight. My pastoral supervisor (the department faculty member each student is assigned for academic and, when necessary, personal guidance) knew, and his genuine sympathy and unwavering belief in my ability to succeed regardless allowed a tiny part of me to hope that he might be right, but his faith was no match for my doubt. In stark contrast, my dissertation supervisor (with whom I had previously never interacted before she was chosen to advise my proposed research) knew me for little else than my depression and its symptoms: missed deadlines, lack of communication, and an absolute inability to produce the slightest scrap of meaningful scholarship, let alone a 15,000-word thesis.

By August, I knew I would need an extension. As the other students in my program commiserated about their hours in the library or celebrated their latest breakthrough in advance of our September 15 deadline, I kept to myself the days on end spent in my bed, unable to find solace in anything but the blankness of sleep and more sleep. I think I hoped, but didn't necessarily believe, that I might finally wake up and discover myself restored; I would be all better, and I could make up for lost time. I would snap out of it any day now, then everything could proceed as normal. That illusion shattered when my boyfriend abruptly broke up with me.

After two and a half years together, he said he didn't see a future with me; after multiple transatlantic flights, my decision to attend an English university, innumerable three-hour train journeys and joyful reunions/heart-wrenching goodbyes at the station platform, he said it was "too hard" to keep the relationship going. He had been unhappy "for a long time," he said. I know what that's like, I could have responded sarcastically, but I didn't want to fight; I wanted to make it better. I cried, he cried, I reasoned, I pleaded, I made promises – anything to save the best thing I had in my life, both then and ever. Through sobs, mine and his, he insisted it was "best for both of us," and then he abandoned me.

It's not his fault I left school immediately after that. My dissertation supervisor, I'm sure, had already written me off by the time I applied for a formal leave of absence from the university for one year. I wouldn't blame her if she was relieved to be rid of me. My GP wrote the necessary letter of medical support, as he must have done for so many other students before me. I don't know what he said, exactly, but I used his language in my own brief appeal for leave, citing my "loss of drive" and need to "recover," as if I had any idea what recovery would look like.  I called my mother and told her all at once that I was coming home, that I was too depressed to manage, and that my relationship was over. My father asked if I was depressed because of the breakup, and even in all my vulnerability, I was offended. Of course I hadn't been shattered so thoroughly by just one boy; that boy just happened to be the last thing keeping me from giving up. I didn't tell anyone else on my course that I was jumping ship before the September deadline they were all diligently working towards, with the exception of one person I ran into in town – another English student whose work I admired, but who knew me little enough that it felt safe to say, "I'm not turning in my dissertation, actually; I'm going on a leave of absence for a while." I think we both wished each other good luck.

I can't remember now whether I ever explained to my friends in so many words why I reappeared in our hometown a year after most of our group had deserted it; we'd kept up with each other well enough, the core group of us, that they implicitly understood that I was coming home for a little while to "sort some things out." I don't remember much of those first few weeks, actually. I know that I had a panic attack while doing some last-minute packing, missed my flight, had to get an expensive last-minute hotel room in Manchester and endure an hour of customer service negotiations with my flight booking agent, and collapsed into bed as soon as I got home. I didn't unpack for weeks; in fact, there are still a few things still rattling around in my suitcases now, a year and a half later. Just a few weeks after I got home, I have no recollection of how I spent my 23rd birthday.

Looking back, it seems miraculous that I found a job so quickly that fall, albeit a part-time one. I was overdressed for my interview at a bakery on the Friday before Halloween, sitting across the table from my soon-to-be-manager wearing leggings and Minnie Mouse ears, but I got assigned regular shifts and started to rebuild my life around the routine of setting a wake-up alarm, getting dressed, arranging cookies in glass display jars, smiling at customers, and tying up boxes of cupcakes with pink string. When I started to feel more ambitious, I reapplied at a tutoring center five minutes from my house that had failed to call me back the previous summer, and I slowly started using my brain again to teach pre-college sixteen-year-olds the fundamentals of English grammar. I kept at my freelance writing assignments for the mental_floss website all the while, though I constantly missed deadlines and worried every week that they'd find someone better.

After eight months, I sent in a polite resignation email and left behind the bakery, the numbing dullness of standing still behind a counter watching the seconds tick by, and the indignity of mopping at customers' feet at the end of a long night as they dropped crumbs and laughed and refused to leave, long after closing time. The tutoring center began to need me more and more, assigning me students with learning disabilities as well as those aiming for the Ivy League, asking me if I could possibly tutor math and science as well as verbal, entrusting me with the younger children, requesting that I come in early and stay late and making me feel, in some small way, necessary. All the while, the official date of my re-enrollment at York loomed, but the thought of researching and writing a 15,000-word work of literary analysis continued to seem as impossible as it had the year before. After having started to feel better, I once again started to feel worse – just in time for the department to email me asking if I planned to return as expected. I didn't want to say no, but I couldn't bring myself to say yes.

At the end of the summer and, for some people, the start of a new school year, I saw a psychologist for the first time. She scheduled me in for weekly sessions and referred me to a psychiatrist, who prescribed a different medication than the one whose effectiveness had waned. Both of them were optimistic about my treatment, and I felt some confidence in applying to extend my leave by a set period of a few more months, sure that I was really on the upward swing this time and would be ready to tackle the dreaded dissertation – the obstacle between me and a Masters degree – by the start of 2016. My therapist spent weeks simultaneously reminding me that while my value as a person is not determined by my ability to submit a 60-page essay and the failure to do so shouldn't ruin my sense of self-worth, the psychological baggage associated with the dissertation was clouding a fact that likely seems obvious to anyone whose personal identity isn't in crisis: it's just a paper. It's just a stupid paper that is a requirement for me to graduate with a silly degree that doesn't make me a better person for getting it and, conversely, wouldn't make me a worse person if I never got it. I know that now.

Two weeks ago, I threw out my old dissertation topic, baggage and all, and came up with a new one. My supervisor never responded to my last email months ago and I wouldn't be surprised if she's even forgotten who I am, but I decided to forge ahead without her anyway. My deadline is in a week, and I've been feverishly reading and researching, telling myself I can cobble together those 15000 words minimum at least well enough to pass – not to score particularly highly, not to be praised, not to be singled out for a stunning work of academic achievement that marks me as a remarkable scholar and intellectual, but just to pass. If I do, the degree itself is secondary; what I really want is closure. I want to know that this time hasn't been a waste. I want proof that I'm in a better place now than I was two years ago, and maybe that will mean that the next two years will be even better. I don't know whether this will work out the way I want it to, but then again, even if it doesn't, I might still be okay.

Anyway, that's the real answer to, "So how are you?" that I haven't shared until now. I'm okay. I've been better, but I've been worse, so right now, I'm okay. Thank you for asking.

Hey, four-eyes.

The time has come, myopia said, to talk of many things: of frames and lenses and nearsightedness, of how tiny my face is and how nearly blind I am.

First impressions?

It's been a few years since the last time I had an eye exam, and in the meantime, I've grown increasingly worse at seeing anything further than three inches from my face in focus. I dread needing new glasses, not only because it reminds me of my imperfect human body, but also because I cherish familiarity and fear change. My glasses are, in a sense, my most prized possession: if asked, I wouldn't think to put them on the list of things I'd rescue from a burning building -- because they'd already be on my face. Otherwise, I'd probably die in the fire.

The last time I needed new glasses, I panicked when it came time to choose the frames. I had narrowed down my options to a handful of nearly identical thick, black, rectangular frames when the saleswoman negged me, suggesting a $100+ pair of designer frames that she said, "look like the ones you have now, but more...feminine." I was so offended that I bought them immediately. What a chump.

This time, I'm trying to avoid succumbing to my usual paralyzing fear response when required to make an important decision in a limited period of time with both money and personal vanity on the line, so I decided to go the Warby Parker route. Despite knowing that any successful new brand's popularity is at least 60% due to savvy marketing, I can still be genuinely impressed with Warby Parker's 1) flat pricing (nearly every pair of glasses costs $95, including prescription lenses), 2) generous but not overwhelming selection of frames, and 3) free home try-on program, which allows me to choose five possible frames from their website and have them shipped to my front door. Also, all of their models look really cool, but like they're not trying to look cool, and I'm into that. I'm Warby Parker's target audience. They got me.

My five frames arrived today, surprisingly quickly (although don't ask how long it took me to narrow my choices down to five). As a packaging aficionado, I appreciated the box they came in: simple black with a white Warby Parker logo on the side, which unfolded to reveal a plastic tray with each of the test frames individually wrapped in its own labeled plastic bag and a free return shipping label for the end of my trial week. But first, my current glasses, for reference:

My cousins and I once showed up to a family event wearing matching glasses...all four of us.

I like these, although I could do without the Coach logo emblazoned across the arms, misleading anyone who views me in profile into thinking that I'm much fancier than I am. They also tend to slip down my nose a little bit and tip sideways, as a result of -- and I'm just now coming to terms with this -- my crooked ears. So, slightly larger, squarer frames would fix that, right?

Nash in Crystal

 These would be great if I were a super hip lady scientist, but I don't know how well they suit my actual life. They look kinda like lab goggles.

Wilkie in Whiskey Tortoise

 Now you see what I mean about my crooked ears.

Oliver in Whiskey Tortoise

These look almost identical to the previous design, so much so that I'm not positive I've labeled the two correctly. Compared side by side, one is slightly wider and the other is slightly taller, but it's hard to tell in these pictures. I don't mind these, and although I went with tortoiseshell as a way of breaking out of my boring black frames rut, I actually like the way they complement my poorly maintained ombré hair.

Cass in Blue Slate Fade

 I love these...but yes, I realize they take up an entire third of my face. The blue is nice, though: more color than I've worn since my very first pair of pink plastic frames in kindergarten (terrible eyesight runs in the family), but subtle enough that I wouldn't be concerned about not matching any of my clothes...most of which are black anyway.

Chamberlain in Whiskey Tortoise

THESE ARE HUGE AND I LOVE THEM. It's just that I think it's already obvious what a giant nerd I am without having the glasses to confirm it, you know?

So, it turns out five frames is either still too many choices, or not enough. Help.

If Chris Evans Were Your Boyfriend.

Inspired by the incomparable, inimitable, ethereal Nicole Cliffe and Mallory Ortberg's "If ___________ Were Your Boy/Girlfriend" series (see: Channing Tatum, Kristen Stewart, Stanley Tucci).

• If Chris Evans were your boyfriend, he would always help you make dinner. He would take his role as kitchen helper very seriously, and his strong hands would make quick work of all the onion chopping. He would insist on wearing an apron the first time as a joke, but would continue wearing it on all subsequent occasions.
• If Chris Evans were your boyfriend, he would point out constellations to you on clear nights. The first time you spotted one before he did, he would look at you and smile, wordlessly, with pride in his eyes.
• If Chris Evans were your boyfriend, he'd never let you be cold. At the slightest hint of a shiver, he'd wrap his arm around you, or rush to find a blanket, or pull off his own wool-blend navy sweater to layer over your too-thin cardigan. He'd get one look at you drowning in the fabric before bursting into laughter. As you scowled and tried to swat at him with one floppy sweater arm, he'd only laugh harder, falling back onto the couch and pulling you down with him.
• If Chris Evans were your boyfriend, you would learn to love the Red Sox, and a "Boston Strong" t-shirt would somehow find its way into your closet.
• If Chris Evans were your boyfriend, you would be surprised to learn that he doesn't care much for ice cream; cold foods gave him headaches, he'd confess. You'd say you couldn't imagine anything more comforting at the end of a bad day. The next time you went grocery shopping together, Chris would disappear for a few minutes and return with three pints of Ben & Jerry's in his arms, "just in case."
• If Chris Evans were your boyfriend, he'd refer to you as "my girl" and you'd love it.
• If Chris Evans were your boyfriend, his choice for movie night would always be a wild card: one week he'd be insistent on a double feature of the Dardenne brothers' Two Days, One Night followed by Fruitvale Station; the next, he'd just really want to watch Superbad again.
• If Chris Evans were your boyfriend, you wouldn't mind finding something else to do when his brother came by, understanding that boys need time to be boys. Scott would take to you immediately in a little-brother sort of way, offering to fight Chris on your behalf if he ever mistreated you in the slightest. He'd even offer you the second Xbox controller when Chris disappeared into the bathroom for too long before hearing his brother's alarmed voice from the hallway: "No way, dude. She'll wreck you."
• If Chris Evans were your boyfriend, you'd take up running, just to feel less ashamed by your decidedly un-superheroic physique. He would join you on the rare morning he wasn't required on set until after lunch, except on the single occasion you managed to wake up before his alarm went off. Perched on the edge of the bed, sleepily lacing up your sneakers, you'd feel a gentle tug on the back of your shirt: "No," you'd hear. "Stay in with me."
• If Chris Evans were your boyfriend, he wouldn't know what flowers to buy you, but he'd make up for it in other ways. He'd buy you a balloon at Disneyland, get Benedict Cumberbatch's autograph for you from the BAFTAs. He'd build you a snowman.
• If Chris Evans were your boyfriend, you would be intimidated by his female co-stars. You'd meet Hayley Atwell for the first time at a red carpet event, stunning in a smokey eye and black taffeta gown, but before Chris could introduce you, she would extend a hand and say, "It's so nice to finally meet you. I've heard such good things from Chris," and you'd know that she meant it. Scarlett would be a tougher nut to crack, initially aloof and reaffirming your uneasy sense of being an outsider at Tom Hiddleston's casual London get-together, until you told the story about ordering Mexican food in Paris and heard her laugh from across the room, not realizing she'd even been listening. "You're right, Chris," she'd call over. "She's hilarious."
• If Chris Evans were your boyfriend, he wouldn't be embarrassed to ask you the definition of a word. "Babe?" he'd ask gently, looking up from his copy of In Cold Blood. "'Timorous,' what does that mean?" "Hm? Oh, it's like...kind of shy, or nervous." He'd pause for a second: "Huh. Okay. Thanks." He'd make sure you caught his grateful smile before he settled back in to keep reading.
• If Chris Evans were your boyfriend, he'd say he loved your voice when you sang.
• If Chris Evans were your boyfriend, he would tease you about your fondness for his worn flannel shirts. One day, after he had been gone all day doing press events, you would fall asleep in the living room wrapped in the red buffalo plaid he looks so good in and wake up to a kiss on the forehead and a "Hey, sleepyhead. Miss me?"
• If Chris Evans were your boyfriend, he would spend far too long choosing the right Christmas tree and you would be just starting to grow impatient with him at the exact moment he'd exclaim, "This one!", and it would be the nicest tree you'd ever seen.

23 and counting.

Senior year dorm room throwback.

Birthdays have always felt backwards to me. In a glass-half-empty kind of way, marking the inevitable passing of time feels more scary than celebratory, like a clock ticking down rather than tally marks adding up. It also feels a little bit silly: all I'm guaranteed to have done by living to see another year is the bare minimum to survive, with no stipulation whatsoever that I've necessarily made any positive contributions to the world in that time. (Even more pessimistically, I've continued to use up resources on an overpopulated planet, so it's conceivable that I've actually made a negative impact over the past year. Bummer.) This kind of thinking makes it difficult to accept everyone's well wishes: "Thank you! I wish I could say I'd done something worthy of memorializing!"

I love other people's birthdays, though. I am a perpetual late gift-giver, but only because I struggle to find material objects worthy of all the incredible people I know. I want to give them love and hope and contentment and inspiration and hugs that can be saved in a jar for when they're needed the most, but I haven't yet encountered the specialty shop that carries those. I love other people's birthdays because I have difficulty appropriately expressing gratitude for kindness that's shown to me, but I love having the opportunity to shower my loved ones with the kindness I think they deserve. I know, I know, talk about cognitive dissonance and a major lack of self-esteem, but I'll always look suspiciously on those people who get unreasonably excited for special treatment on "their" day.

Speaking of holidays I'm not a huge fan of, Thanksgiving makes me uncomfortable as well. It's a made-up occasion based in historical genocide, for one; it's a public outing of emotions I prefer to keep private, for another. Going around the table and hearing what everyone's thankful for sounds nice in theory, but when it comes to my turn, I feel almost resentful that I'm being required to share something so personal. Of course I'm thankful for good health, my education, financial stability, everything that would naturally be cause for gratitude for anyone who has them; what I'm more individually thankful for is the unique collection of friends and acquaintances who have nudged me into the shape of a person I am today. They're the best; who wouldn't be thankful? But with turkey, ham, and stuffing on the table, I doubt anyone genuinely wants to hear me rhapsodize about the last time someone lent me an amazing book or held my hand or offered me a french fry off their plate and laughed at my jokes, so I'll mumble some canned answer to speed the process along, and keep the honesty to myself.

My birthday is the day I really give thanks, I guess. Every time my phone buzzes or a notification pops up on my Facebook, I'm reminded of one more person in the world who wants me to have a happy birthday, with varying degrees of sincerity, but at least enough to type out the words and click send. I spend a lot of time clacking away at my keyboard with abandon, but I know most people don't, so the gesture means a lot to me. My favorite part of my birthday is the reminder that those people exist.

It's no secret to those closest to me that this past year has been the hardest one of my life. On October 4, 2013, I had newly arrived in York, excited to explore a beautiful city and surrounding countryside, to throw myself into the study of literature at a world-class university, to meet similarly enthused colleagues and peers, and to live a mere three-hour train ride (much closer than an international flight) away from the boy I couldn't get enough of. Twelve months later, I've experienced a slew of firsts, but not the kind anyone would wish for: first time feeling inadequate in a field I had always considered mine, first time feeling betrayed by everything I'd previously found solace in, first time acknowledging my own brain's battle against me, first time needing to seek professional help, first time crying in front of a stranger, first time feeling unable to read or write or think anything at all, first time feeling my heart try to throw itself out of my chest after being made to feel worthless by someone I loved, first time having to admit defeat and go home. 22 wasn't a particularly fun age.

Then again, this was also the year that a friend picked up a long-distance phone call while he was at an amusement park, and refused to go anywhere near a roller coaster until I stopped sobbing and he was sure I was going to be all right. It was the year I dressed to attend a ball and felt a little bit beautiful because a sweet boy had told me I was, and I believed him. This year, my best friend offered to take off work, dip into her savings, and fly across an ocean just to be with me at my saddest. My brother rationalized my breakup with the logic that my ex-boyfriend probably felt guilty, "because you're great, and he probably feels bad that he can't be happy with someone as great as you." People this year complimented me -- me! seriously! -- on my makeup. Friends continued to laugh at my jokes, to retweet my tweets, to answer my text messages. 22 could have been worse.

What I'm saying, I think, is that the thing that makes me happiest on my birthday is other people. Happy birthday to me, but happy every day to you, friends. You're the one who deserve to be celebrated. I hope we're still friends when I turn 24.

Vlogging in Manchester.

Proof that this face does not belong in front of the camera.

 What's going on? Why am I in Manchester? Why is this hotel so fancy? Find out the answers to these deeply unimportant questions by clicking the play button below!

P.S. After actually watching the video myself, I realize I never made it clear why I'm spending the night in luxury I clearly can't afford: there was literally nowhere else available within a 5-mile radius of the airport tonight (so cab fare both ways would have negated the difference in cost), leaving two options: grit my teeth while handing over my weary debit card with at least a plush, spacious bed for the night to look forward to; or try to survive the night in Manchester Airport without being subjected to whatever unspeakable horrors befall young women dozing off alone in empty transit stations. I'd much rather work however many minimum-wage hours it takes to afford this rather than become a sensational tabloid headline tomorrow. Also, this bed is no joke. The ceilings are high enough for me to jump on it if I wanted...not that I would, or anything.

P.P.S. Sorry my hair kept trying to steal the scene. I've been trying for twenty years, but it just can't be tamed.

Recommended Reading: Male Escorts, Hypergiant Stars, and Slushies.

Hello and welcome to the second installment of my weekly Recommended Reading, where I share the best of my recent browser history in hopes that I might inspire others to have more interesting conversations around the water cooler, or whatever it is people with office jobs and less time to click on articles in their Twitter feed do.

“I Went to the Woods So I Could Steal Candy From Children”: The Maine Hermit Is A Terrible Hero To Have by Mallory Ortberg, The Toast
     Last week I recommended an essay about the infamous man who lived in the woods of Maine for almost thirty years, surviving not by hunting and gathering, but by stealing things from nearby cabins in the middle of the night. I maintain that it was a fascinating article about someone whose way of thinking is completely unfathomable to me, but the incomparable Mallory Ortberg points out exactly why all the people who have since idealized the hermit's pseudo-back-to-nature, away-from-humanity mentality are a bunch of morons and, in fact, the hermit was kind of a jerk who kept people from feeling safe in their own homes and has terrible taste in music and is yet another false idol of tortured masculinity in a world that has too many of those. There's a difference between living deliberately and being a selfish leech on the very society one scorns, and at least Henry David Thoreau was a good writer.

Story of a male escort by Will Thorr, The Observer
     I have complicated feelings about prostitution. As a feminist, as a human rights advocate, as a believer in bodily autonomy, as a social liberal, as a sex-positive person to whom the idea of treating sex as yet another purchasable commodity nonetheless does not personally appeal, as a person who worries about large-scale issues like human trafficking and power dynamics and wishes there were a way to ensure sex workers' safety without compromising their ability to make a living and would be concerned, justifiably or not, about the well-being of any friend who entered the industry, I spend a lot of time trying to understand sex work. Accounts like this, told from the perspective of the UK's highest-paid male escort (where "escort" in the US is usually a euphemism for prostitute, here it seems to mean it explicitly), help with that attempt to understand. Josh Brandon's story, of getting into drugs and trouble in school and growing up in a dead-end Welsh town with nothing to look forward to but a job in a grocery store, makes sense to me. It's a rags to riches story with a mostly happy ending, really, only with clients who pay extra for their weird fetishes.

Experience: I was a male escort by Anonymous, The Guardian
    This is an older piece that predates the Josh Brandon article, and was suggested as "related" to it. The anonymous writer gives a similar account of the financial freedom afforded by his escort work on top of a steady job "in the creative industry, in an area rich in job satisfaction if not remuneration," but he's much more conflicted about the moral compromises involved.

How dare anyone criticise British food? Indigestible dinners made this country great by Stuart Heritage, The Guardian
     I enjoy a hearty pub lunch as much as the next alcohol-abstaining expat in England, but there's a hefty pinch of truth to the stereotype that British cuisine consists mostly of beige and brown lumps of varying consistencies but minimal gustatory appeal. Then again, to avoid sounding like an ungrateful foreigner in the country responsible for Cadbury chocolate, I'll let a native poke fun at British food instead.

What Happened to Jennifer Lawrence Was Sexual Assault by Anne Thériault, The Belle Jar
     Callous as it sounds, I am burnt out on coverage of the celebrity photo hacking incident. I'm no less sympathetic to the victims now than I was when the news first broke, but I have much less patience for the abundance of thoughtful, well-intentioned, but ultimately useless think-pieces littering the internet right now. This is an issue on which I have no tolerance for dissenting opinions: the women targeted in this crime didn't deserve such a gross violation of both their privacy and ownership of their own bodies, and anyone who disagrees can very rapidly exit stage left. Again: this was not a "leak" or a "scandal," it was sexual assault.

Diablo Cody Is Known and Loved at Her Local Taco Bell by Siera Tishgart, Grub Street
     The Grub Street Diet is a feature I'm always excited to see cross my newsfeed, so much so that I'll even read ones featuring a famous person/food-eater whose life and work I wasn't previously familiar with. The chance to read someone else's food diary for a week deeply satisfies my desire to become acquainted with other people's most mundane behaviors and preferences, which some might call a voyeuristic instinct, but I prefer to think of as a scholarly absorption with human social behavior. I have a B.A. in Psychology, so I can get away with saying that.
     This particular Grub Street Diet takes a peek at the eating habits of Diablo Cody, who wrote Juno and some other movies (Jennifer's Body, Young Adult) that may be entirely adequate but will never live up to Juno, so I haven't bothered to see them. This is the same woman who wrote the line, "Can you hold on a second, I'm on my hamburger phone," so I had high expectations. Her meals of Five Guys for lunch, "some Special K Pastry Crisps, which are like fake-ass Pop Tarts for self-hating idiots," and most of her son's slice of chocolate cake at a child's birthday party did not disappoint. I won't ruin the final line of the piece for you, but it's killer.

The Columbia Student Carrying a Mattress Everywhere Says Reporters Are Triggering Rape Memories by Katie Van Syckle, The Cut
     Emma Sulkowicz's performance art piece requires a lot of courage to carry out, and while I hate that reporters have so few qualms about harassing her for the sake of a story, I'm glad this is getting so much coverage. This interview is further confirmation that she totally rocks.

Eleanor Catton sets up grant to give writers 'time to read' by Alison Flood, The Guardian
     Eleanor Catton's novel The Luminaries won this year's Booker Prize (and is on my to-buy and to-read list), so in gratitude for the honor, she's putting her prize money towards the establishment of a grant that will provide financial support to young writers, giving them time not to worry about putting words on a page or making ends meet, but simply to read. I love her idea for what to name it: "Catton said that the word which keeps coming to her as a possibility 'is the horoeka, or lancewood, a native tree that begins its life defensively, with sharp rigid leaves and a narrow bearing, and at a certain point transforms into a shape that is confident, open and entirely new – so different, in fact, that the young and old versions of the tree look absolutely unalike. That is what I believe that reading can do.'"

My Parents Have Elder Care Insurance, But Daughters Are Apparently the Next-Best Thing by Marci, XOJane
     "Women appear to provide as much elderly parent care as they can, while men contribute as little as possible." Ugh. Of course.

Wanna renounce your U.S. citizenship? It’s gonna cost you more. by Colby Itkowitz, The Washington Post
     Let's be real: this isn't going to "make it more difficult for tax-evading Americans to hide money in offshore accounts." It's just going to enact a stronger financial penalty for people living and working abroad who decide that not even an American passport is worth paying income tax to two different governments at once. Tax-loving Democrat that I am, I still think that's ridiculous.

The Original Patent for the Slurpee Maker by Adrienne LaFrance, The Atlantic
    I'm fond of slushies and weird trivia. This has both.

Twenty Days of Harassment and Racism as an American Apparel Employee by "Jane Doe," Gawker
     There are plenty of retailers I avoid for ethical reasons, making various degrees of sacrifice to do so: Wal-Mart, Urban Outfitters, L'Oréal, the company that makes shockingly adequate frozen pad thai meals but sources its shrimp from slave ships. For a long time, I was torn about American Apparel: former CEO Dov Charney has been a notable creep for as long as his company has been around, and his recent dismissal was well overdue, but their commitment to manufacturing products in the United States under reasonable labor conditions is rare and admirable in the garment industry; plus, they do produce some quality basics. I largely avoided brick-and-mortar American Apparel stores before now because I could tell, instinctually, that I wasn't thin or alternative enough to look anything but out of place browsing racks of metallic leggings and spandex crop tops; after reading this hellish account of working in an environment that normalizes racism and sexual harassment while repressing dissent, I have even more reasons to find my solid-colored t-shirts and skater skirts elsewhere.

4 Mind-Blowing Facts About Space by Tim Urban, Wait But Why
     Space is the coolest. I took an astronomy class as my lab science requirement in college, which turned out to be one of my all-time favorite experiences with one of the smartest men I've ever met -- shout-out to Professor Lombardi, Jr. at Allegheny College! -- from which I've retained a surprising amount of information, yet I'll still be engrossed in articles like these about facts I already know because I never get tired of reminders that looking through a telescope is like time traveling, there are 10,000 times more stars in the universe than grains of sand on Earth, and the entirety of human existence is a speck in the fathomless universe. That's either bleak or inspiring.

You Almost Certainly Have Mites On Your Face by Ed Yong, National Geographic
     Haha, just kidding. I didn't read this because I don't want to know.

Pitch Perfect: actually a little off-key.

(Sorry not sorry for the title.)

There's not much point in writing out all the reasons I was disappointed in Pitch Perfect, a movie that came out two years ago and has been widely loved ever since by every single human being I know. In fact, I'm probably setting myself up for some half-hearted argument over the merits of a movie that, overall, I enjoyed and would readily watch again, but was simply let down by this first time.

There's no need to pity me for having gone so long without seeing Pitch Perfect. While everyone was learning the clapping routine to accompany "The Cup Song/When I'm Gone" (which I already knew and helped teach to a group for a student leadership conference talent show, no big deal), I was compiling YouTube playlists of college a capella group covers of songs whose original recordings I didn't even particularly like until I understood their true majesty in translation. I was listening to Straight No Chaser's two Christmas albums on repeat. I was watching old episodes of The Sing-Off and lamenting that the SoCal Vocals didn't make it farther in the competition than they did. I was auditioning for a fledgling women's a capella group on campus with my take on Death Cab for Cutie's "I Will Follow You Into the Dark," and although they passed on me, they also, to my knowledge, only ever had a handful of unimpressive rehearsals and never performed once before fizzling out. I sometimes tweeted links to particularly impressive a capella videos back and forth with a friend using the hashtag #acapellapals. What I'm saying is I didn't need a blockbuster movie to teach me the gospel of a capella.

The vocal performances in Pitch Perfect were catchy and exhilarating in the way Glee's best musical numbers were, or at least how I remember them being before I stopped watching the show, embarrassed on its behalf for the caricature it eventually became. I think I felt my soul flutter during the "riff-off" scene, and Anna Kendrick's voice is pretty but powerful in a way that my church choir voice only wishes it could be. As for Jesse's singing, suffice it to say that watching the movie with my best friend induced a lot of "oh my god i love him so much" commentary. And Benji's stage debut! What a scene-stealer. What a heartbreaker. Well done with all that, Pitch Perfect. I have to wonder, though, if any other a capella fans felt a little deflated at how crisp and obviously studio-recorded all the songs sounded: watching the Treblemakers's mouths move on stage in an auditorium seating hundreds while listening to polished, professional, soundtrack-ready recordings was an experience as painful to me as watching music videos of '90s pop stars who never quite got the hang of lip-syncing. A capella is so dynamic largely because of the spaces it takes place in: acoustics matter, and the sound of singing to a crowd and the sound of singing in a recording booth are totally, distractingly different.

Back to Jesse, though: he was kind of the Paul Rudd character, right? Cute but not super hot, confident but thoughtful and sweet and a major dork. I sarcastically guessed that he was going to be the love interest from the minute he appeared on screen, and the best friend sarcastically shot back, "How did you figure that one out?" Which is a good question, actually, because that first interaction between Jesse and Becca made no sense: he's in the backseat of a car, presumably his parents', acting like a massive goofball and that's all it takes for standoffish alterna-girl Becca to decide he's a keeper? And what, did he just pick the first pretty girl on campus to sing to and happen to get lucky by actually being into her personality? And then they turn out to be the two radio station interns on the entire campus, despite Jesse having no established musical inclinations prior to calling a capella groups "organized nerd singing." I dunnoooo.

Speaking of Jesse's interests, he's into film, okay. But what is he studying? What is Becca studying? What are any of them in college for? Is the quad so crowded with students sitting on the grass because all of them are cutting class all the time to do stuff like drink juice pouches with their not-boyfriends? I've never seen a less convincing college setting in any movie, and I'm counting videos people filmed on their point-and-shoot cameras for a class project. Becca's dad may teach Comparative Literature, but those tweed jackets were way too warm for that weather, which reminds me: the passing of time?? It was move-in day, the Bellas practiced two hours a day for seven days a week, they wore jackets outside at night in one scene, then it was time for spring break. I don't think I passed out for part of the movie, but the chronology makes as much sense as if I had.

Becca's mom isn't dead, just divorced and elsewhere? Estranged? By whose choice? Of course she hates the stepmonster; that's a given, even if not a single detail is given about what makes her dad's second wife so abhorrent besides the fact that Becca's still emotionally 11 years old. That was a pretty weak way to justify her tendency to "push away people who care about you" or whatever Jesse chastised her for, especially because as far as I could tell, she definitely did not push him away when they were watching the end of The Breakfast Club on her couch in the dark. I don't blame him for getting fed up with her constantly pulling that nonsense about him not being her boyfriend, but he was definitely her boyfriend and maybe they should have come to some kind of agreement about that. It's possible to be too respectful of someone's space, Jesse.

What the hell is Aubrey's deal? Her dad is a military guy and she definitely votes Republican, but did we ever get a suitable explanation for her ability to projectile vomit by sheer force of will? Who died the previous year and made her Barden Bellas queen, especially over Chloe, who is generally much more chill and likely to be voted into a position of leadership? More importantly, why is she the lead soloist when she sounds...the way she sounds? There's no way in hell the Bellas would have made it past Regionals with their dead-eyed 1950s airline stewardess routine, let alone all the way to the International Championship of Collegiate A Capella at Lincoln Center, no matter how pretty they all looked in their Stepford Wives uniforms. Nothing in the world can cause me to suspend my disbelief to that extent.

I did love all the other characters -- to the extent that I knew anything whatsoever about them, including their names. Stacie who has a lot of sex, Lilly who was harboring sick beatboxing skills the whole time, Cynthia Rose with the gambling problem, and of course Fat Amy/Patricia: they were all so lovable, but so limited. Sexy Stacie couldn't even sing during auditions, but suddenly she's facing off against Donald at the riff-off and holding it down, the same way Lilly's speaking voice rose to an audible level at the last minute for no discernible reason other than that the plot called for it. Cynthia Rose was a lesbian, which was funny because...? Someone please fill in that blank for me, because I honestly must have missed the punchline. The only thing wrong with Fat Amy was that there wasn't enough Fat Amy.

Let's not talk about the vomit, except to agree that the movie could've done without it and it's best to pretend it never happened.

The choreography was super weird.

Wasn't it convenient that the one guy from the second-place a capella group at Regionals was a high school ringer, and that Benji noticed the tote bag and connected the dots and reported it and that the officials personally followed up with an investigation, then disqualified the entire group, leaving a spot open for the Bellas to compete?
Wasn't it lucky that the loss of Chloe's "nodes" only led to the loss of her vocal range above a G-sharp, but didn't prevent her from singing her established solo parts as well as contributing a deep bass beat that set the Bellas apart from all previous all-female groups?
Wasn't it just the darndest thing that Bumper got that call from John Mayer close enough to ICCAs that the Trebles panicked, but far enough away from performance day that the group could perfect an arrangement featuring Jesse and Benji, who had never sung with the group before the week of the competition?

Okay. I'm sorry. I started writing this at 5:00 a.m. this morning and it probably sounds nuts. I did like the movie, I swear! To make up for being a grump, here's one of my favorite a capella performances ever, and may all you Pitch Perfect superfans forgive me:

Joan Rivers, and not settling for women who are "good enough."

I understand the injunction not to speak ill of the dead, I do. Death doesn't occur in isolation, and the loss of a loved one leaves friends and family in mourning. In the case of a fondly remembered public figure, such as the recently passed Robin Williams, the number of those left grieving expands beyond an immediate circle of acquaintances to people who felt they nearly knew the deceased, and whose emotional lives are affected accordingly. Not speaking ill of the dead, in most instances, is a reminder not to let petty quarrels disrupt mourners in fragile states, to whom some small debt or slight pales in comparison to the enormity of their sadness. If a co-worker dies of cancer, it's in decidedly poor taste to remark that at least they won't be stealing your sandwiches from the fridge in the break room anymore; that much restraint, I don't think, is too much to ask.

To preempt accusations that I'm dancing on Joan Rivers's grave even before it's been dug, I'll say this: I'm not happy that a woman who loved and was loved is gone, but I'm not sad that a celebrity who built her fame by throwing marginalized people under the bus in the name of comedy can no longer continue to do so. In this case, exhortations not to "speak ill" of the dead have the potential to silence those who might speak up amidst the wave of hagiographic tributes to remind Rivers's admirers of the poison she injected into the entertainment industry; in this case, shushing Joan Rivers detractors for the sake of not speaking ill of the dead speaks of a willfulness to brush her significant wrongdoings under a rug indefinitely, for the sake of painting as a saint a woman who was anything but. Prioritizing a narrative of Joan Rivers as pioneering female comedian over Joan Rivers as unapologetic, harsh-tongued critic of other women, minorities, the LGBTQ population, et cetera (and there's a lot of et cetera there) means posthumously forgiving her for a lifetime of cruelty masquerading as humor. Some people aren't ready to do that, and I don't blame them.

Time Magazine was quick to hit the hyperbole button with their coverage of Rivers's death, calling her a "groundbreaking feminist icon." Personally, I read those words and heard a loud record scratching noise, hoping that Time Magazine now publishes satirical news pieces; unfortunately, not so. Someone's rebuttal was that Joan Rivers is a woman of historical significance in the same way Margaret Thatcher was: the first of her kind, but not the best and, arguably, one of the worst. The trend towards labeling all influential women "feminists" is one that increasingly worries me, not because I feel the need to jealously guard the label as an honorific to be earned, but because lumping together the likes of Margaret Thatcher with Michelle Obama and Joan Rivers with Amy Poehler, Jessica Williams, and Mindy Kaling demeans the very notion of women rising to the top by virtue of talent rather than gender. The word "groundbreaking" is fair enough to ascribe to Thatcher and Rivers, as they were certainly the first women to make significant inroads in Western politics and mainstream comedy, but being female and being a "feminist icon" are not at all one and the same. To heap too much praise upon Joan Rivers for being the "first female comedian" doesn't only serve to state that she did it, but implies that she was the only one who could have done it -- that had she not made her culturally altering appearance on the comedy scene, no other woman could have. That's an insult to all women. Rivers was the first, but she didn't necessarily have to be; she simply happened to be, albeit through hard work and determination, but also through a coincidence of timing.

Moreover, Rivers herself disclaimed the title of feminist, and at least in doing so, her actions aligned with her words. A quick search on any form of social media right now will net a wealth of Joan Rivers "jokes" of the variety that people found funny and of the variety people found offensive; most of the time, they overlapped. Just a very limited sampling of such instances:

• Used the occasion of Adele's Oscar win for "Skyfall" to make a fat joke about her statuette wearing Spanx
• Took a posthumous shot at Amy Winehouse, two years after her death by alcohol intoxication, by remarking that it was "the longest she ever went without a drink"
• Called Kim Kardashian's baby, a mixed-race six-month-old child, "ugly" and "desperately in need of a waxing"
• Thought it appropriate to respond to Rihanna's confession that she still loved Chris Brown, who brutally beat her within the context of their relationship, with the words, "Idiot! Now it's MY turn to slap her!" She later followed up with faux concern, telling Rihanna that if he hit her once, he was likely to hit her again -- as if Rihanna needed Joan Rivers to tell her that.
• Compared staying in her daughter's Malibu guest bedroom to the plight of the three women (Amanda Berry, Gina DeJesus and Michelle Knight) Ariel Castro kidnapped and locked in his basement for ten years, and followed it up with, "There is nothing to apologize for. I made a joke. That's what I do" -- as if making jokes were an action entirely without consequence.
• Supported fellow offensive person, Alec Baldwin, by letting loose a string of slurs: "Everybody just relax. Everybody’s either a w*p, a n###a, a k!ke, a ch%nk, a f@iry, a m$ck — everybody’s something so why don’t we all just. Calm. Down." She then helpfully clarified that this applies especially to "the Indians — both dot and feather!"
• Used the n-word liberally, then railed against how "PC" the world is for censoring/censuring her.
• Insulted Gwyneth Paltrow's appearance while making a Helen Keller joke -- an impressive two-in-one feat, really.
• Demeaned Palestinians on multiple occasions, claiming they "deserve to be dead," calling those who didn't "get out" when told to get out (reminder that it's just about impossible for Palestinians to leave Gaza!) "idiots," and rejoicing that "at least the ones that were killed were the ones with low IQs." She blamed the election of Hamas on a population of "very stupid people that don't even own a pencil." She never apologized.

These are not frivolous complaints. To stopper up criticism of words that hurt people -- because no, jokes are never just jokes when one person is laughing and another is crying -- is to reinforce a hierarchy in which rich, famous, white women like Joan Rivers get to enjoy indemnity for causing genuine distress to the very people who most need laughter to heal them. Joan Rivers's family and friends will not be swayed in their sadness by online commentary on their mother's/cousin's/friend's despicable treatment of others, but the people who were the butt of her jokes will have their pain compounded by a flood of those who say their pain matters less than one mean old woman's mocking laughter. I'm not thrilled that Joan Rivers is dead, but I look forward to the day when her cruel legacy joins her in the grave.

Listen, fellow feminists: we don't have to settle for women like Joan Rivers as our icons, no matter what Time Magazine tells us. She was a woman, and she did great things (in magnitude, if not in beneficence), but we need to set higher standards for ourselves than that. There are so many great women in this world who uplift their fellow women, who understand the intersectionality of oppression and the value of empathy, who use their platforms -- whether in politics, the arts, science, fashion, media, entertainment -- to do more good than harm. It should surprise no one that some of these women can even be funny! And that's the kicker here: we don't have to settle for the Joan Riverses of the world, who are female without being feminist. We can make it known that women who are funny, but for whom "problematic" is an understatement, aren't good enough anymore, because there are better women out there. Let's raise the bar.

Recommended Reading: Silly, Serious, and Somewhere in Between.

To say I spent a lot of time on the internet is an understatement. A functioning wireless router enables me to do my research, keep abreast of the news, stay in touch with friends, watch four seasons of Bob's Burgers in three weeks, and do whatever it is I spend so many hours doing on Tumblr. Without internet access, I would spend a significant portion of my day lying in bed, glaring at the ceiling and wondering what other people with internet access are doing.

My browser history isn't all online shopping and social media, though. A significant amount of my bandwidth usage goes toward digital reading material that's undoubtedly wreaking havoc on my eyesight, but hopefully makes up for the headaches by providing some intangible sort of cultural enrichment, or at least fodder for the next time I have a conversation with an actual human being that doesn't live inside a small box on my laptop screen. I'm always wary of deluging my unfortunate Facebook friends and Twitter followers with too many links to articles they may not be interested in, so I'm experimenting with a weekly reader's digest of sorts here, instead, where anyone can elect to read (or not read) what I've been reading lately. Reading reading reading.

I haven't decided yet what day of the week would be best to commit to this feature; Sunday night is probably the worst, since everyone has school and work to get to the next day, but I forgot to do this yesterday and I want to start the week fresh. (Let me know if there's a certain day you would most appreciate seeing these published!) This first set of articles ranges from a little bit frivolous to significant and worth sharing; they may not all be to one person's taste (unless that one person is me), but they're all pieces I think are worth featuring.

All article titles are clickable, and all links will open in a new tab.

Playing with privilege: the invisible benefits of gaming while male by Jonathan McIntosh, Polygon
     I was glad this piece received some attention when I first linked to it on Facebook, where I called it a well-written introduction to certain advantages men who play video games might take for granted, not even realizing how much worse the gaming experience can be for "girl gamers." As the title suggests, it takes inspiration from Peggy McIntosh's classic piece on "White Privilege: Unpacking the Invisible Knapsack," in that both pieces attempt to deconstruct ways in which the author's belonging to a dominant group makes life easier for them in ways that an underprivileged population does not experience. It's especially salient to discuss "male gaming privilege" now, when recent statistics from the Entertainment Software Association show that adult women have overtaken teenage boys as the largest demographic in video games, and yet women who play, discuss, or even make video games are subject to derision, sexual harassment, and even death threats for daring to enter supposedly male spaces. Jonathan McIntosh's checklist of invisible benefits of gaming while male sheds welcome light on male privileges that should, in a happier future, be applicable to all.

The Strange & Curious Tale of the Last True Hermit by Michael Finkel, GQ
     This is a longer piece, but "strange and curious" sums up the reasons for reading it pretty well: a man lived alone in the woods of Maine for almost 30 years, surviving on stolen goods from nearby cabins, with no desire to re-enter society at any point. This account seems to be the closest anyone will ever get to understanding his choices from his point of view.

I Ate 2,346 Calories of Chocolate in My Sleep Last Night and I Don't Remember Any of It by Philippa Willitts, XOJane
     Explaining that this is an article about the consequences of one woman's sleep-walking doesn't ruin her fascinating and sad account of what it's like to live with such an unpredictable, often frightening condition.

It Took Me Two Years to Realize My Boyfriend Was Racist by Tiffany Tsai, Everyday Feminism
     I met my first boyfriend's parents just a few weeks into our relationship, and it would be a lie to say I wasn't nervous about it. Not only was I his first "real" girlfriend, but I was also very much not white in the home of blue-eyed Brits and a mother raised in the American South. I was lucky: they're a wonderfully kind family, who went out of their way to make me feel welcome on that first visit and during every interaction that followed. Though I occasionally teased that "half-American" boyfriend about his late, beloved, Fox-News-watching grandparents, our interracial couple status was a non-issue, and he was always quick to listen and sympathize with accounts of non-white experiences. Tiffany Tsai's piece reminds me to be grateful for that.

I was taking pictures of my daughters. A stranger thought I was exploiting them. by Jeff Gates, Washington Post
     Transracial adoption is a sticky subject that I'm not particularly educated about, but the idea of a white family going overseas to adopt Chinese babies when there are so many foster children in need of homes in their own country does give me pause. However, that doesn't stop me from being upset at this white adoptive father's story of how a man saw him with his teenage Asian-American daughters and assumed the worst. Human trafficking is a serious problem, but so is the assumption that good-looking young girls with foreign features must not belong here, must somehow be victims, can't possibly be happy American citizens on vacation with their loving, white parents. Plenty of people think "better safe than sorry," but that's probably cold comfort to those two girls.

Experience: I gave birth on a plane at 30,000ft by Debbie Owen, The Guardian
     And the baby was okay! Phew.

My Week on the All-Emoji Diet by Kelsey Rexroat, The Atlantic
     I was mostly excited about this because I finally learned what those unfamiliar Japanese food emojis represent. Fish cakes, rice crackers, and "sweet dumplings made from rice flour and often filled with red bean paste" -- now those symbols don't have to haunt me with their unfamiliarity.

I read many, many more articles this week, but I only thought to start collecting them about two days ago. Future weekly editions of Recommended Reading will have even more, um, recommendations. Get ready.

10 books.

I've never been able to pick favorites. It's not for lack of strong opinions (go on, ask me whether nuts belong in brownie sundaes: they don't); it's that I'm reluctant to declare one thing unquestionably "better" than another without any context. My favorites are circumstantial: favorite food can depend on the season, its availability, whether or not I have to cook it myself, the last thing I ate, and how hungry I am at any given moment; favorite band can depend on the definition of "band," what mood I'm in, who's asking, and whether or not I'm trying to impress them; favorite scarf depends on the weather; favorite book is impossible. To a reader, being asked to choose a single favorite book is an outrage akin to being asked to choose a favorite...well, nothing else, really. Film fans might disagree, but books are arguably a category unto their own, so infinitely diverse and carrying such a range of implications about the readers who choose them that being asked to decide on just one feels like an insult.

When well-meaning and/or nosy adults asked bookish little me what my "favorite book of all" was, I used to lie and name the last thing I'd finished simply to get them to leave me to whatever current thing I was reading, or if I was feeling particularly annoyed at the intrusion, I would name a great classic that I knew would both impress them and get them to abruptly end the conversation themselves. It was particularly effective if the title sounded bleak: Crime and Punishment and The Plague worked well. As I've gotten older and even more impatient with the impertinence of the favorite book question, I've resorted to bluntness: "I don't have a favorite book." It's true enough that I don't make many friends with that answer, but then I wouldn't be likely to enjoy the company of anyone who asked me that anyway.

I'm not exaggerating when I say I was horrified to see that my friend Molly had tagged me in one of those "answer these questions and pass it on to someone else" posts about books. I felt betrayed, because Molly is one of those people who I believed would know better, would understand that a person can't simply list their 10 favorite books at the drop of a hat and move on as if the decision were final. Sorry I doubted you, Molly, because the "rules" of this game turned out to be more nuanced than that:

List ten books that have stayed with you in some way. Don’t take but a few minutes, and don’t think too hard — they don’t have to be the “right” or “great” works, just the ones that have touched you.

Oh. Okay. I can do that.

1. Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone by J.K. Rowling
2. I Capture the Castle by Dodie Smith
3. The Catcher in the Rye/Franny and Zooey by J.D. Salinger
4. Anne of Green Gables by L.M. Montgomery
5. The Book Thief by Markus Zusak
6. Never Let Me Go by Kazuo Ishiguro
7. I Wish Someone Were Waiting for Me Somewhere by Anna Gavalda
8. A Series of Unfortunate Events by Lemony Snicket
9. The Truth About Forever by Sarah Dessen
10. Les Misérables by Victor Hugo

My list skews heavily towards books I first read years ago, some of which are considered children's/young adult titles. I did think twice about publicly laying claim to some of them, but what is more touching than the book that all my friends passed around to each other when boyfriends were nothing more than fictional devices, or the ones whose screen adaptations lured us to midnight premieres where we clutched each other's hands when our emotions got to be too much? What has stayed with me more than the book I packed first of all when I left for college, or the one I read alone in bed after I'd arrived at school when no other words made sense? I don't even feel the need to justify the three that made me seriously consider my own mortality.

If you want to ask me about books, don't ask me about favorites. Ask me which ones made me feel a certain way; which ones changed my mind or shaped my beliefs; which ones I'd recommend to a friend and which ones a friend recommended to me; ask me what I was doing when I read a book and what I did after. Then tell me about your books.

My matching set of Salingers.

Men of Tinder.

In a particularly man-hating mood, I thought it might be a fun indulgence to download Tinder and swipe left for (i.e. reject) every single person, reveling in my opportunity to turn guys down with absolutely zero consequences except the possibility that they might have wanted to message me but won't get the chance; so like I said, zero consequences. It was super fun! And then it was depressing, because men of Tinder: you are all the same, and you're all pretty lame.

Here are some sure-fire ways to make sure I never even bother to look through the rest of your pictures or read your Twitter-length profile, all based on actual profile pictures I encountered in the very brief period of time before amusement turned to horror:

• Be shirtless.
• Be shirtless by the pool.
• Be shirtless in bed.
• Be half-shirtless, i.e. wearing a shirt but lifting it up to show your abs.
• Be naked on a sailboat, facing out towards the water, butt towards the camera.
• Be naked sitting on the toilet, because what?!
• Hold a cup of beer.
• Hold a can of beer.
• Be surrounded by a bunch of empty cans of beer.
• Wear a stupid hat that's supposed to be ironic.
• Wear a stupid hat that isn't supposed to be ironic (I really hate hats).
• Have super-short hair -- just a personal preference.
• Conversely, have your hair covering most of your face, because then I'm just suspicious.
• Button all the buttons on your polo shirt.
• Have your hoodie unzipped with no shirt underneath.
• Smoke a cigarette while looking away disinterestedly even though it's obviously a selfie.
• Smoke anything.
• Have your arm around a girl; come on, this is basic.
• Take a mirror selfie with your phone visible in the frame. It's not 2012 anymore.
• Take a selfie on the toilet. Seriously, why the toilet?
• Be named Djonathan because I can't take that seriously, even if it's not your fault.
• Look like the Hulk, because I couldn't care less about how much you can lift, but I'm sure you'd tell me anyway.
• Use a group picture, because I don't want to click through for more pictures and discover you're not the member of the group I hoped you were.

Long story short, I uninstalled Tinder.

Suggested Listening: Bleachers, "I Wanna Get Better"

The day I turned 16, I pulled open my locker to pick up my textbooks for the afternoon and found what remains one of the best gifts I've ever gotten: handfuls of candy, confetti strewn across my binders, and a handmade card wishing me a happy birthday and inviting me to an All-American Rejects concert a few weeks later -- my very first. (Shout-out here to my excellent friend Jane, her mom for buying the tickets, and her dad for driving us to and from Starland Ballroom.) I wore my most flattering t-shirt and a green zip-up hoodie that proved far too warm once we got inside; rookie mistake. A very tall stranger graciously propped little me up from behind for the duration of the show and served as a fine anchor in the sea of over-enthusiastic flailing teenagers, most of whom were jealous that my friends and I were nearly close enough to the stage for AAR lead singer Tyson Ritter to sweat on us, because what teenage girl didn't have that dream? (Actually, we were more Nick Wheeler girls, but no one says no to the band's lead singer.)

AAR were great, of course, and my adolescent, pop-punk-loving heart couldn't have dreamt up a better set of opening acts: The Starting Line, Gym Class Heroes, and some band we'd never heard of called The Format, whose incredible lead singer is now better known as Nate Ruess, frontman of Fun., one-third responsible for "We Are Young (ft. Janelle Monáe)." I've seen him three times in concert, twice with The Format and once with Fun, each time in dingy suburban venues that could have fit plenty more people; now he sings to massive crowds at international music festivals that I can't afford to go to. I've loved his music for a long time, I still do now, and I'm sure I'll continue to follow wherever it goes next (despite one friend's claim that Nate has already sold out), but it's not just mine anymore. Hipster-joke all you want, but everyone has something special they've lost the same way before.

In the hierarchy of Fun band members, I'd easily give Andrew Dost the #2 spot after Nate. When I saw Fun in Pittsburgh, Andrew hung around after the show, when he signed my copy of Aim and Ignite, complimented my fake mustache, and posed for a picture with me, my friend Ashley, and her fake mustache. His previous band, Anathallo, was excellent, he has a weird sense of humor, and he wrote a silly musical about Christopher Columbus that recognizes what a not-great guy he was, in song. Andrew Dost is great, photo evidence below:

I always relegated Jack Antonoff to the third and final spot in the Fun hierarchy, not even by default, but because I actively disliked his last band's music. In fact, I think I actually turned down an invite to see them live at one point? Also, he's dating Lena Dunham, so nahhh. And I never understood his haircut.

All of this is to say that Jack's solo project, Bleachers, came completely out of the blue for me. I approached it skeptically, and as mean as it sounds, I was almost disappointed by how quickly "I Wanna Get Better" hooked me. It's the obvious choice for a first single off the album, Strange Desire, another danceable anthem with a refrain made for shout-singing; what it's missing in Jack's not-quite-Nate-Ruess-quality voice, it makes up for with kitschy, '80s-style production. It's not as good as Fun, but it's fun enough, and a fair contender for the 2014 Song of the Summer, if anyone's still searching around for one this late in July. When music critics start hyping it and every Top 40 radio station is playing it, though, remember that you heard it from me first.

Bonus: I'm not kidding about how '80s throwback the entire album is. (Edit: No wonder. Vince Clarke of Depeche Mode and Erasure produced it.) This is the only other track available on YouTube that didn't make me want to immediately don a pair of legwarmers and pull my hair into a side ponytail with a neon scrunchie: