Musing

I don’t call myself a sex addict, though others seem happy to do it for me. A fellow blogger asks whether her own obsessive thinking about sex makes her one too — and I have some thoughts.

Poof. She was simply gone from my list. The kids today….

I abhor drama. So why does it keep finding me?

Adam Phillips, on the futility of sexual jealousy.

On Tinder, I lead with something vaguely suggestive and slightly funny — and I mean every formulaic word of it.

My three approaches to swiping on Tinder, from mindless to attentive — none of which, it turns out, makes much difference.

For me, anger is never primary. It’s always protecting me from something else — usually fear.

Facebook killed my fake identity, and with it, my Tinder life. Won’t you be my friend?

Shame lives in my body — hot, constricting, brutal. I wouldn’t wish it on anyone.

I ask a lot. I give a lot. It’s not complicated.