On March 23, 2015, Kate created a profile on Okcupid.

Some 300 opening messages later, she's been on a whopping 15 dates.

Kate likes women. This feeling does not appear to be mutual.

Clearly, she is doing something right.

Typos Make Me [Sic] - 2018

This piece appeared on this blog in its original form on July 30, 2016. It has since been substantially rewritten. What follows, in a slight change of pace, is the updated, even longer version of what was already an utterly absurd, lexical wet dream of a sentence — one which (in keeping with my seemingly insatiate lust for self-sabotage) I have since sent to select prospective employers as the intro to my cover letter. Shockingly, I've landed two interviews on the strength of it alone... so I guess it's not all bad.

(I probably shouldn't internalize that, though.)


"I enjoy the weight of words and wonder... and existential run-on sentences—the knotty, gnarled, snarled kind that enmesh and enmingle you in the fresh, minty tingle of another person’s mind, reminding you, if only for the briefest of seconds, that in the soft, solo lofts of your own you are completely, infinitely, irrevocably alone—and reminding you, for a slightly longer interval, that there are seven billion and some change other unique internal worlds jingling and jangling about out there in some seven billion and some change other heads—entire inscrutable, entopic universes ballooning with emotion, and opinion, and kaleidoscopic color; with squishy, silly, splendiferous ideas—acre upon wild, green acre of lush mental real-estate; sprawling, mossy cityscapes of messy, archived memory; a dusty, blurring slurry of long-lost self-history—entire dream factories whose nightly, narcotic product you will never once be able to taste or smell or see or hear or feel; the upper parterre of your own mind being the only you will ever really know—if that, even—the overwhelming, elephantine weight of it all (the Sisyphean nature of these facts) being one of the few things to cut you down at the knees; to stop you in your tracks—to make you realize how very small you are, and how very magnificent you are not... until you remember (in a rushing, revelatory, excessively alliterative whirl) that each of these sweetly sour, wonderfully strange things are what paint you and those seven billion and some change other selves wholly, ineffably, inimitably human— all sharing breaths of the same warm air; this one square inch that we call home; this one spare second of elysian incandescence:  life.

And in that, you feel connected. Because here you are, all at once, one amongst many:  alone, alive, aloud... together.

That is what I enjoy."

Frond Of You

Pulp Fiction