I am at a lecture. A lot of the people here are old, but I am kind of young. I am eighteen, which is young but not young like people say I am. I have not been twelve for six years, and when I take off my clothes, don’t say I look so young. I will not put out. Anyway. I am going to a lecture and when I reach to pull up my pants in the bathroom stall, I realize I’m not wearing underwear. I’m not wearing underwear, and I’m not wearing a belt, and probably the man who was sitting behind me (who is old) will see my ass when I sit down again. Everyone is dressed nicely except for me and my bare ass. I am only at this lecture because Kevin sometimes looks like a puppy. This is a narrative, kind of. This is a kind of narrative.
Dear Chantelle, I thought you should know that I’m really mad at you. I’m also really sad. I closed all my shutters and listened to “In the End.” It’s so true: “You tried so hard and got so far/ But … Read More
It is a warehouse like any other,” Fran Johnson tells me. Fran is probably in her late twenties, pudgy-cheeked, buxom, effusive. There is something solid yet soft about her: she stands with her feet shoulder-width apart and volunteers information like a well-stocked jukebox
The second woman to serve on the Court and the last of Bill Clinton’s appointees, Justice Ginsburg built her legal career on the fight for women’s rights and was instrumental in a number of ACLU-led fights—but on Thursday she was here to avoid all that.