There she was, deep in a Lexapro/cocaine induced blackout.
Every breakfast, lunch and dinner were meticulously documented, each square captioned with the day’s creation: superfood pumpkin risotto, fatty bananas (bananas and butter), avocado tomato mash, yummy liver and beets, creamy spinach and pear, soupy rice porridge, breast milk oatmeal, silky tofu, creamy vegetable soup
It was day three of the Democratic National Convention and day 19 of my short tenure as a Chicago resident. I had the day off work, and nothing to do but get on my Hunter S. Thompson shit and poke my nose around the old DNC to do some gonzo journalism.
I stand just a couple inches from the mirror in my grandma’s guest bathroom at her house in New Mexico, my breath fogging up the glass. As I brush my teeth, I give myself the once over and tug at the
The first fries I had when I was a kid weren’t from McDonald’s but from The Odeon.
Sometimes I think I won’t understand what it is that I’ve lost until I write a book about it.
