Chrissy Stockton

For the rest of my time on earth there are going to be days where I don’t love myself even after I have read an article titled ‘How I Finally Learned To Love Myself.’

The fourth time I go to Chicago we are already in Wisconsin before we slide into the Twitter dms of a writer we know from Tumblr and ask if we can sleep on his floor.

This is a poem for the duck in the water who thought I might have some bread.

If this were a book I were reading I would screenshot the section to a writer friend and say ‘lol that’s not how things work.’

You have to tell the universe “these are the motherfucking rules.”

April doesn’t have to be the cruelest month!

I’m falling behind in a very specific way that is available for everyone to witness.

I like to think of relationships as being all about me because that is all that I am in control of.

They don’t tell you that one day you will be in a beach house filled and warm with people you met through a small screen in your hand.

I need a mental health specialist to help me recover from trying to find a mental health specialist.

One of the scariest comments I read all the time across different platforms (but especially on Thought Catalog) is “you call this journalism?”

It’s always Why Georgia playing in the car.