Chelsea Fagan

There is an alternating need in their writing to both assert their gender equality and to clasp their hands in solid sisterhood with every other female on the planet–a tight-knit circle of ovaries that goes around and around, reaffirming its own awesomeness.

You’ll linger on the cusp of wailing, of running in any direction until your lungs ache–but you won’t. You’ll shrug and vaguely shake your head, pitifully mumbling something along the lines of,“Oh, of course…right. No, no, that’s cool.” You will awkwardly walk away, feeling the burn on the back of your neck as you know they are watching you with a combination of pity and discomfort.

Actually, forget that. Let’s not waste our time with meaningless pleasantries. Our acquaintanceship was as much out of necessity and courtesy as any could ever be. I loved her, and you moved yourself into her life practically overnight and settled your belongings, like a neighbor the co-op board barely approved of.

New York — Woke up this morning, took a drag off my Parliament, and looked out the grimy window of my 100-square-foot apartment. Saw a homeless man peeing on a schoolchild.

When I was a little girl, I had the milky-white, nearly translucent, perfect skin of a redhead. It was the kind of skin that, between its near-invisible pores and soft dusting of freckles across the nose, elicited coos of “She looks like a little angel!” from strangers in the grocery store.

Sometimes you want to appreciate the richness and complexity of classical music, sometimes you want to get high and work yourself into tears while writing a thesis on OK Computer, and sometimes you just want to hear some loud noises with people talking over them.

Ladies, we all know men are hard to figure out. They are a constantly shifting puzzle, 10,000 pieces, all sky. Perpetually finding new ways to obfuscate their thoughts and subvert their emotions into complicated interpretive dance–it is left to us to pick up the scraps and rearrange them in a pattern we can understand.

We live in a fast time. Things stop being cool or relevant the second you finish typing them and hit “enter,” and grown-ass adults dedicate entire careers to keeping up with what is cool by doggedly sifting through social media websites. Trends have the shelf-life of egg salad at a summer picnic, and it’s hard to even tell what the kids are doing these days…

It should be established, first and foremost, that I believe in marriage. The religious aspect of it (obviously) means nothing to me or my loved ones, but I believe in the concept and the beautifully hopeful idea of it. I want more than just a long-term relationship; I want the joining of families and the carrying of last names and the ring-groove on my third finger that will never go away.

Hearing snippets of anecdotes about beer-bonging jungle juice or sleeping with two girls in the same night, one unbeknown to the other, confirmed to me that the American Pie-style high school experience did, in fact, exist – just not for me or anyone I knew. There was fun to be had here, I just wasn’t invited to it.

I know it may not seem that way, because you are tapping letters on an electronic typewriter into a buzzing screen that has so many words on it, but you are actually communicating with people. Just like all of those people you no doubt keep in touch with on your WWE and Paula Deen forums, your Facebook friends can actually read what you write, as well.

I was sitting in a cafe today and was about to order a coffee, and I saw these two girls a few tables over, laughing and smiling and touching each other’s shoulders when they said something particularly witty. I thought of you, and I ordered a tea instead.