A wailing female voice came over the stereo and I did whatever the internal equivalent of an irritated gesture is. Not much of the song was distinguishable—the singer did not enunciate—but words about shoe-shopping and compromised love came into it, and a bridge that communicated desperation followed by a triumphant verse.
I’m always confused about the different kinds of femininity, some of which are repulsive and others shameful and one or two otherworldly. I remember being eighteen and wanting, basically, to be a boy—not physically, just emotionally—when someone pointed out that I just hadn’t located the right archetype, and if I’d even bothered to look I would have found it right away.
She also writes some fucking hilarious reviews of Mad Men.
A young woman wise beyond her years. love.
Illustration by Laura Laine. Incredible.