Emo Ruminations

Earlier today, I emerged from a Propofol haze, which sounds glamorous—very midlife spa—a clean, medically sanctioned blackout (and the best sleep of your life) requiring you to sign twenty forms confusingly saying that you might die, but also: statistically unlikely, very peaceful, and do you have an advance directive just in case? Are you at

Now I am too old to complain, to be weird, to curse, to be offended, to be sensitive, to whine, to resent, to be behind on savings. I am not the wise, financially secure, intentional woman I thought I’d be with a bookish brownstone, a smattering of unique friends, and young people seeking my advice.

As Zelda pointed out, “Everyone you like is dead.” Truth. I have an obsession with dead guys. I’ve found my niche in the dating world, and I’m not sorry about it. They’re always available, they don’t lie, and they give me exactly the right amount of space (six feet under, to be precise).  Vintage Variety

An app I don’t really use that much on my phone is the “Notes” app. I’ve always been more inclined to write down my thoughts in notebooks or journals, so after years of having an iPhone I have maybe used the app a handful of times. When I first started dating my most recent boyfriend,