There comes a point in every Other Press Editor-in-Chief’s career when they get a little bit burnt out and exhausted, and the weekly writing of a 500-or-so-word Lettitor becomes increasingly daunting. I feel I reached that point months ago, and have attempted to truck along as though I have all the inspo in the world.
Over the last few years, I’ve had a relationship with food that seems perpetually in flux. When I was 17, I became a pescatarian because I read it was more environmentally friendly to not eat meat. Indeed, in Eating Animals, Jonathan Safran Foer notes that factory farming is more detrimental to the environment than driving
It’s been six months that we’ve been together, and I never knew how cared for and carefree I could be until you entered my life. It was difficult and even uncomfortable at first. I was nervous, palms sweaty, knees weak, arms heavy, but I knew that it was right—or at least, that I would never find out if it was right unless I gave it a shot.
I had some trouble coming up with what to write about for this Lettitor, to be honest. I briefly considered writing about da bae, but I empathize with those who would find a 600-word piece on my happiness sickeningly saccharine. Let’s be honest, Valentine’s Day is among the most overwhelmingly caloric of all the sweet holidays, and I think I would blush with embarrassment if I spent editorial space on giving people cavities.
Nudity is, paradoxically, both emblematic of strength and of vulnerability. Daenerys Targaryen, (spoilers!) emerging from the ashes of her husband’s ritual cremation with dragon triplets, represents strength
I recently had to fill out a sheet, outlining my plans and goals for the next two years—two years. I looked down at my next couple years of existence, glossing over birthdays, events, moments of stress and joy, arguments, sweet nothings, and all the rest that makes up the bulk of our lives.
I’ve traditionally been something of a cynic when it comes to the New Year and New Year’s resolutions. Perhaps it’s from paying witness to so many earnestly pursued and doomed-to-fail resolutions, or perhaps I simply veer towards the dubious.
Comfort has a price. When you have it, you’re a willing participant, cocooned in its luxury. Your world is grounded in the known, leaving even the new and unbeknownst to jive with the rhythm of the ruling rumba: familiarity.
The first few months of my term as EIC have been a veritable roller coaster, quandary, and pleasure. I stepped into the role, green as our floors—due in equal measure to fresh-facedness and anxiety—and was bombarded with issues right outta the gate.
I take too many selfies. I know I’m not supposed to admit to such narcissism, acknowledging that the shallow depths of my self-reflection mirror those of Narcissus.
