Memory is tricky. Porous. It shifts and rearranges, until you’re left holding something delicate and fragile, that you hope or believe is true. Or is a version of the truth, at the very least. Back to us: I am 27; she is 41. I never stop to wonder if I am in love. I still... Continue Reading →
From the Lesbian Files: 27 (the passionately ill-advised)
When I was 27, I fell for a woman who was 41. I fell hard. And fast. It was exhilarating. I fall easily. It’s a known quantity. But this moment in time caught me finally climbing out of a yearlong depression. The darkest I’d ever experienced. Things were starting to look brighter, though, by which... Continue Reading →