When I first heard Mr. Morale & the Big Steppers, I felt understood, vindicated. Hell yes, I thought, Kendrick reads Eckhart Tolle, too. I was surprised to hear Tolle’s voice throughout the album—he’s one of the few spiritual wizards that have actually made sense to me. Being a skeptic at heart, I’ve always had a staunch aversion to the realms of spirit and self-help. It took me a while to warm up to Tolle, and I only made the time because my therapist had asked me to. She had me read A New Earth. It’s one of two self-help books I’ve actually finished, the second being The Artist’s Way. Both have their flaws, major ones that had me cringing and questioning why I was bothering with the material. But they also contain infinitesimal seeds of ideas and shifts, potent ones that bloom with time and reflection. It made the difference.

Call me your run-of-the-mill millennial, but I love urban spaces dripping with greenery—apartments, atriums, nightclubs, salons, coffee shops, IDGAF. In part because it looks cool, but also, there’s nothing like the feeling of being enveloped in nature in the middle of a city. Beyond the visual impact, there’s a tangibly atmospheric quality about a shit-ton of well-placed healthy indoor plants, like a primordial invitation for peace and respite amid modernity’s ubiquitous grays and relentless hustle.

Thanks so much for reaching out, Nelnet. Or, well, I just gave you a call at the number you provided, and the caller ID read “Brazos Student Loans”? A quick Google search tells me Brazos is a student loan provider for Texas residents. Hmm, well that’s sort of confusing, since I’ve never been a Texas resident. But I suppose “best loan experience” doesn’t need to cover updates on name changes or switches in services—whatever happened there! Let me know when you have a chance, though, will you? No rush at all. I know you’re busy “helping however you can”.

I don't listen to R. Kelly anymore, but that doesn’t stop his songs from creeping into my thoughts. Recently, I was battling period cramps, breathing deeply and staring off into nothing while waiting for the max recommend dosage of ibuprofen to kick in, when the first couple bars of his Bump n’ Grind unexpectedly began playing on loop in my head. Sensuous, seductive—wrong?

I’m from New Jersey. And that is why I live in New York. I don’t particularly enjoy traveling to (or through) New Jersey, the few exceptions being Grounds For Sculpture in Hamilton, NJ, Central Avenue above 51st Street in Ocean City, NJ, visiting my fam for the holidays in the middle of nowhere, NJ, and—as of this weekend—lake house life with girlfriends in Branchville, NJ.

After reading Marie Kondo’s bestseller The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up: The Japanese Art of Decluttering and Organizing, I was inspired to declutter the hell out of my life. The dozens of beautiful dresses, shoes, and bags in my closet I hardly ever wore? Donated. The hundreds of greeting cards hoarded over the last 30 years stashed in random bags and drawers? Chucked.

If it has be cold, let there be snow. Let there be a lot of it, and let it stick. Let it not melt the very next day, so the good people of the Tri-State area have time to admire and fiddle with their snowman creations and angel impressions for days to come. New York City sees on average 29.8 inches of snow annually. Last year, it saw just 7.5 inches. The year before that, 2.3 inches. After such meager totals the past few years, I cannot tell you how badly I yearn to trudge through the middle of a blizzard in Central Park. Because believe you me, there is nothing like being swept up in a New York City snowstorm’s wild, silent fury.

After more than four weeks of around-the-clock efforts to combat nine wildfires spread across Los Angeles County, the last of the blazes, Eaton and Palisades, were finally 100% contained on January 31st. Just two days later, Fire Chief Anthony Marrone and Captain Sheila Kelliher Berkoh, alongside 20 other heroic LA firefighters, took to the stage to present the final category of the night, Album of the Year. They were met with the longest standing ovation of the night. Well deserved, and yes I cried. And yes, I’m crying again, dammit.

On October 7, 2023, I reposted a tweet to my instagram stories (because that’s how social media works these days) that said, "today is the best of days to see who is really on the side of liberation”. In the months that followed, I watched countless friends, acquaintances, artists, and celebrities—initially reluctant, timid, or apolitical—join the side of liberation. I was moved by their changed hearts and minds in the face of the media’s overwhelming bias and spread of disinformation.

Wandering the Metropolitan Museum of Art a few times every year is core to my being as a New Yorker. There’s much to see, so much appreciate, so much to be repatriated. The more traveling I do, the harder it is to bare the Met’s Oceanic Art, Ancient Near Eastern Art, Egyptian Art, and Islamic Art collections.

New York City is insufferable in the wintertime, particularly towards the end of January, once the holiday afterglow has settled and dissolved into sewer runoff. Neighbors have dismantled their bawdy decor. City streets have been stripped of their festive lights. Window displays have readily replaced “Winter Wonderland” snow globes with “Unwrap the Love” cupids or whatever Valentine’s Day bullshit brands want us buying into these days. And then there are the sidewalks, coated in fallen needles from dried out evergreens waiting to be scooped up by Department of Sanitation angels and carried to their final resting place, begging the question: how long is too long to hold onto a giant dead tree?