I have an extremely dangerous urge to reread The Secret History just to feed whatever psychological deficiency I currently have, despite the fact that a small army of unread books is already staring at me in disappointment.
I have a big interview today. If this happens to pass through your timeline, spare me a little prayer. I have a feeling I might need every bit of luck I can get.
My cat was unusually clingy tonight. He hopped onto my bed, looked at me with the kind of judgment only a cat can deliver, then settled beside me and slept like it was his job to keep me company.
Baby, I hope the night is kind to you, the moon watches over you, and every dream feels gentle. If I can't be there to hold you, I hope the stars do it for me.
I had fun reading Yesteryear as a cautionary tale. It is embarrassing in the BEST way possible because this book asks one thing: “do you actually want traditional femininity or do you just want the aesthetic of being cherished?”
What makes the book so interesting is that it doesn’t feel like it’s mocking femininity. It’s mocking the performance. The curated version of womanhood online where devotion becomes branding, softness becomes content, and “simple living” somehow still requires affiliate links 🤷🏻♀️
We’re all a little guilty of romanticizing lifestyles we would NOT survive for more than three business days. I mean, romanticizing submission is way easier when you still have autonomy, legal rights, and the ability to log off whenever you want.