The surfer, she tells me she met a woman at a 40s singles mixer. The type of woman who reschedules her flight home to Colorado so that they can have sushi in California. There’s a sweetness to tales of the dating world when I’m in a monogamous relationship. I feel only a little bad about appropriating them to satisfy something which I can’t put into words. Imagine the world in which I hadn’t spotted the surfer in the queer Catholic Slack space of Vine & Fig when I did, that one day she was there. (Continue)

There’s a weekend-long dance workshop in town. While she’s certainly not our first house guest, the situation feels brand new. It must be the Japanese mattress we just bought, which turns our one-bedroom shoebox of an apartment into a temporary bed and breakfast (and lunch and dinner) for Anneli, the journalist from Sweden. I haven’t seen her in years. The most vibrant memory I have of her is ending a three-day stay at her welcoming, warm house, and saying to Anja: “I think I’m going to quit drinking”. (Continue)

First of all: not a great week. I continue to struggle to notice when I feel stresed or overwhelmed, and it never fails to result in my body giving me a clear sign. On Monday evening, in the midst of a busy work month, my body said “SIT. DOWN.” I needed undtil well into the weekend to feel myself again. One of the signs my body knows to give it a very mild version of conversion disorder: I lose the ability to listen to a conversation while I walk without feeling very dizzy. (Continue)