“Pain is temporary; swag is forever,” a motto I use to hype myself up whenever I’m sitting in that all too familiar reclined chair, needle dancing in and out of my skin. From a young age, I knew I’d either never get a tattoo or be covered, no in between. When I turned 18, the allure of swag won, and my mother’s pleadings lost.
The only thing worse than Florida is being from Florida. Since my escape to Boston, whenever I tell people my home state, I’m met with concerned faces, the pitiful “You poor thing,” or people literally backing away from me in fear. I use “escape” not as a hyperbole.
Sex and I have a complicated past. It’s like when your friends beg you to go with them somewhere, telling you it’ll be a great time and you’ll realize how much fun it is once you’re there, and so you cave and go. Once you get there, you realize they lied; it’s not fun.
Phoebe Waller Bridge’s Fleabag has become my most beloved piece of media. With quick Brit-wit, relatable subject matter, and monologues that will make your father cry, there is not much you can’t love. Season two introduces the notorious Hot Priest, whose on-screen chemistry with Fleabag is so palpable it has you feeling like you should look around to make sure no one sees you intruding.