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Three boys on their way home from Catholic school, one of them oblivious to how “Father X really likes me” sounds in the 21st century.

Tomorrow, the holidays end, and I return to the familiar rhythm of my life. I can’t. Fucking. Wait.

Not writing about not wanting to write about not wanting to write.

A brief encounter with a woman I’ll never see again.

Sometimes a single word says everything that needs to be said.

My grammar, you’ll have noticed, is perfect. My experience with a recent editor, not so much.

A writer, a recovering addict, a TED talker — and my inexplicable, overwhelming physical reaction to her.

Curating the art of the breast shot, one theme at a time.

A woman on the subway, described.

I’ve got a lot to be thankful for — family, material fortune, and, maybe most of all, the fact that I’ve mostly stopped being at war with myself.