Satire: The timeline of relationships
I'm in my bitter era. Maybe it's because I'm single before Valentine's Day, or maybe it's because you people are testing me.
Use the fields below to perform an advanced search of statepress.com - Arizona State Press's archives. This will return articles, images, and multimedia relevant to your query.
12 items found for your search. If no results were found please broaden your search.
I'm in my bitter era. Maybe it's because I'm single before Valentine's Day, or maybe it's because you people are testing me.
I am not Claire. I am Beatrice. I am Deedee. I am Katherine. I am Little Girl No. 2. I am 40 men in suits. I’m 2,000 script pages and 643 restless nights. I am four dead families and eight different counties. I am 99 patchwork quilts. A sarcastic fridge magnet. An ironic bumper sticker. I’m my car, or my house, or his house or your house — it wouldn’t matter. I am an idea, a project. Five boys’ wet dreams. 17 men’s unsuccessful victims. Two parents’ failures. I am anything but real, an unidentifiable object. I am two new sneakers made to look dirty. I am him, or I am her, or I am 72 minutes of voice-over in a Chinese animated movie. I am desperate for help. I am eight boxes of hair dye. I’m 116 pounds. I am lonely. I am your girlfriend’s daughter. I am 21 hours of film. I am the burdens of those before me. I am my mother’s daughter. I am trying. I am something. I am nobody at all.
The worms that live in my brain make themselves known in plenty of ways: My bitten nails, pounding headaches and bad thoughts all go back to the nuisances in my frontal lobe slowly chipping away at my sanity. On good days, they operate as a copilot, a second-in-command. On the bad days, they usurp their leadership. Usually, they manifest as random urges — swerve the wheel, hit your head, breathe faster, faster, faster until you can’t breathe at all. Shake and cry when everything’s okay. Do anything but what you’re supposed to, and drag everyone down while you do it.
I’m not a journalist anymore.
As a young nonbinary writer, I naturally spend quite a bit of time thinking about gender. Through my countless hours of pondering, I’ve discovered it’s clear that every gender reacts to this world in a different way. Women are still reeling from the many waves of feminism, gender-nonconforming individuals are being attacked almost everyday, and men have only just been told that everything they’ve ever done is wrong. I empathize with men, I swear. Pinky promise. I’m no misandrist, and I can understand the turmoil a man would face with this new knowledge. How is one expected to cope when their entire world comes crashing down?
If you’ve read any of my previous work, I may not give this impression, but I’m a traditionalist.
We’re in the throes of the spring semester here, and if you’re anything like me, you’ve changed your major (twice), gone into a deep depressive episode and have considered running away to Canada and getting a new legal name. I hear Toronto is nice in the spring.
Are you a creative, feminine-presenting performer residing in the Valley?
When I think of college students, I think of a few things: sober living, responsible choices and monogamy. That’s why I chose Arizona State University. It makes complete sense that the University would dictate a dry campus. Banning something entirely has always worked. We all know that’s why the prohibition worked so well.
Election Day is Tuesday, and unlike all of these other so-called reporters, I'm not here to shove propaganda down your throat. Personally, I am sick of talking politics. Kari Lake this, voting rights that, blah, blah, blah. I'm kind of the bravest thing you can be politically nowadays — truly apolitical.
We've been in a cold snap this past week, at least as close to a cold snap as we can be in Arizona. After a storm so powerful even Ironman contestants were afraid to hop into Tempe Town Lake (who wouldn't be), Arizona is permanently 10 degrees cooler.
"Cheers, to the end of days!" I say to friends, sitting in a $71 million state-of-the-art production studio at the Walter Cronkite School of Journalism and Mass Communication. I brandish my reasonably new iPhone 13, its screen open to a New York Times article about the dystopian reality of doctors smuggling abortion pills into red states.
This website uses cookies to make your experience better and easier. By using this website you consent to our use of cookies. For more information, please see our Cookie Policy.