"From there, we spend our remaining two hours in Paris huddled over two small tables in a warm café. Here at this last café, the waiter complements my ordering in French and pats me on the shoulder, and, whether it was honest or a joke, it makes me feel good. Like, maybe, after another week, I might feel like I could survive here."


"Hands in Pockets"

Travel Essay.

The first thing I thought about Paris, sometime after my arm was tingling from my over-stuffed bag cutting off all circulation, was that the Seine was small. I grew up on the Ohio River, and it defines a lot of my personal history and my city. So, when it came to a city as famous as Paris, with a river as definitive as the Seine, I was expecting it to be larger. Je suis américain.

"I Want to be Like Peaches Monroee"

Personal Essay.

It was one of those heavy-hot late summer days, when school had already started but we were all still bullshitting around and pretending it hadn’t. My best friend and I were terrorizing the end-of-summer sales in the one strip mall in my town when we saw it; there was a car, something vague and big and blocky, with “EYEBROWS ON FLEEK” painted on the rear window over a pathetically drawn eye and eyebrow. We took pictures. I posted mine on Snapchat with the caption, “God, I love America.”