Call me jaded, call me secretly romantic, but I simply can’t bring myself to use dating apps anymore.
I’ve sung the praises of single life before, and it’s a life I enjoy greatly; but that does not mean I am opposed to sharing this world with another.
Just as it took me years to sign up for Facebook, I resisted Tinder for a similar period of time, even though it excluded me from so much office banter and exchanging embarrassing stories with friends. If I’m honest, creating an account filled me with dread.
Knowing that the dating world is at…
Last year I woke one morning to a solemn message from my best friend: Sorry for your loss, my dear.
My eyes blinked in bleary confusion. Loss? Not again.
My sibling had died from cancer years earlier and, while I understood they had left the world much sooner than most, I didn’t feel ready to be dragged through the meandering and foggy roads of grief once more.
But as I read on, I saw that my friend — who was holidaying in Europe and on a different time zone — had learned the news that the rest of my country…
Don’t ask me to count how many times I’ve walked home, alone, the sound of The Smiths pulsing through my earphones as frontman, Morrissey, laments: “You know I’m unlovable …”
Sometimes, if it’s late evening or no one else is walking behind me, I close my eyes and imagine a world where every line of The Smiths’ lyrics is plastered on t-shirts, billboards, the front page of newspapers (who wouldn’t prefer to read I’d be more fulfilled making Christmas cards with the mentally ill instead of Just do it?)
The Smiths are, or were, the collective voice of loners world…
Sentimentality can become a curse if you let it.
We live in an age where social media encourages us to re-share photos from just one or more years ago, baking in our excessive nostalgia for times that may not have been half as great as the picture wants us to believe.
I’m always wary of the past’s insidious footsteps gaining traction on me, but right now — mere days away from moving to a new home — I am an emotional wreck.
I came to this apartment four years ago with a housemate. …
The US rapper once known as Melissa Viviane Jefferson has, not surprisingly, become both an ally and icon for the gay community. “My shows are very inclusive safe spaces for everyone, especially marginalized people, more specifically the LGBTQIA+ community,” she told Variety.
Personally, rap just isn’t my thing. I tried listening to Lizzo, but the truth is simply that I prefer the indefatigable melancholia of Lana Del Rey, or the urgency of riot grrrl rock band, Sleater-Kinney. In terms of body image, I can appreciate Lizzo, though I suspect that, for many gay men, much of her appeal lies within…
When William was on his way to work, he received an unexpected message from the doctor: could he come to the surgery in one hour’s time?
As a million dire thoughts raced through his mind, William, a 34-year-old teacher from Sydney, Australia, began to experience an anxiety attack. His first reaction was to call his friend Marcos in Brazil.
William and Marcos refer to one another as “the best friend I’ve never met.” The pair connected through social media and send daily messages — both voice and text — via WhatsApp. Unlike those in Sydney, Marcos understands him: the two…
There is a difference between dogged perseverance and knowing that it’s time to give up.
All my life I’ve only ever wanted one thing: to be a writer.
Lots of people have the exact same desire, I know. The amount of hopeful authors out there seems to exceed aspiring actors, artists, musicians et al — everyone has at least one novel in their head.
Actually finishing that novel, on the other hand, is a whole other challenge, and one I estimate at least half of the would-be writers of the world do not accomplish.
Understandably, life makes us all busy…
Before our first — and final — date, the French man whom I’d been chatting to for the past 48 hours offered some comforting words to help calm my nerves.
“At the very least,” he assured, “we can still be friends.”
Possibly he meant well, but this flimsy promise made me realise I was already in trouble. I mean, who uses “least” and “friend” in the same sentence, as if acquiring someone to spend time with in a non-sexual manner is some sort of pathetic consolation prize?
Sadly, he’s not alone in this assumption.
In my bedroom, I have journal…
There are bigger problems in this world, but one of the things that worries me is knowing I have friends whose handwriting I’ve never seen.
I’m aware that there is an entire generation who may never have penned, sent or received a hand-written missive in their lives, though a lack of physical mail has certainly resulted in a lessening of my own existence. I’ve checked my email five times so far today; I can’t recall when I last opened my letterbox. How did the world get too busy to write? And how did it happen to me?
Growing up in…
Just before 12 am on a weeknight, my whole apartment rattles with the urgent buzzing of the intercom.
What happens next is a frenetic flurry: my housemate rushing to the door to let in his latest hook-up, and quickly shuffling them back out between twenty to forty minutes later, all followed by the steady hiss of the shower. (A little water will clear us of this deed?)
It’s a predictable rhythm that I’ve grown accustomed to: sometimes it happens every night of the week, on other occasions once or twice a month; but each late-night caller still brings with it…
A semi-colon in the shape of a human.