★★★★ The snow was, at first and for a moment, nothing more than an extra gray on the grayness. On close inspection, it manifested itself against the dark neighboring balcony railing as a very few little flakes moving nowhere particular.
I was eighteen and pregnant. I remember reading only a few weeks before that day that women often know when they are.
You know how when you’re lying awake late at night and you can’t fall asleep no matter how hard you try because you are troubled by the bad choices you’ve made and the terrible things you’ve done and the knowledge that now there’s no way out of the prison you’ve put yourself into and you start to fantasize about how your life would be better if you could somehow go back and do all the things differently from the way you did them when you didn’t know any better but the more you think about it the more you realize that each decision you’ve made was predicated on an earlier, equally poor decision going as far back as you can remember and you start to understand that the only way anything could ever be okay for you and the everyone you’ve hurt—which is everyone you know—is if you were never born at all and so you shut your eyes and imagine a world in which you never existed and you see that it is good and you pull further out in your mind’s eye to view a vast unfathomable galaxy filled with stars and flares and spirals all shining on without you and finally you come to a state of brief but perfect rest?
Brought to you by Apartments.com. Silicon Valley Maverick Brad Bellflower has done it again. Another world-changing tool that will create greater harmony between people and the space they dwell in.
When I jumped into the always lucrative field of journalism in my mid-20s, I made a pact with myself that I’d get my financial act together at age 30.
Which will come first: the end of winter, the moment when Jesus sends forth His angels and they gather out of His kingdom all things that offend and do iniquity and cast them into a furnace of fire so that the righteous might shine forth as the sun in the kingdom of their Father, or the fixing of the broken escalator in Penn Station?
People drop things on the Internet and run all the time. So we have to ask. In this edition, Marketplace Weekend host Lizzie O’Leary tells us more about what it’s like to vomit on a movie star.
From time to time, The Awl offers its space to everyday citizens with something to say. In a Chronicle of Higher Education cover story by Laura Kipnis that is just now leaking its way from the academic Internet towards the general interest Internet, the Northwestern film professor savages the growing vogue for victimhood among today’s young people.
According to the seasonal patterns of the broken prediction market known colloquially as the “music industry,” now is the time to make bets on summer songs.
The Concessionist gives advice each weekend about the sordid choices of real life. Trouble? Write today.
★★ A baby rode in a chest carrier while wearing a full-body electric-blue down suit, the sealed ends of its sleeves and legs dangling far beyond normal baby proportions.
One Saturday in April of 1855, a large group of German immigrants assembled around the courthouse in downtown Chicago, hoping to attend a hearing at which nineteen saloonkeepers would stand before a judge for violating one of two new laws enacted by the new nativist mayor, Levi Boone, who had promised during his campaign to curb liquor consumption.
In The Love Affairs of Nathaniel P., by Adelle Waldman, the main character, a specifically chauvinistic Brooklynite with a book deal, goes for a run around the Prospect Park loop two blocks from my apartment.
“I know from experience that Internet events like this have consequences.”
[byline] In December, my husband and I bought our first house. Our house cost $500,000 on paper, and in real life we spent exactly $91,068.31—money that used to be in our bank accounts, but is now somewhere else.
If you want to pretend that the weather is anything other than suicide-inducing you could do worse than to press play on this one right now and occasionally look out the window before the flurries start to fall.
★★★ The sky and air were crystalline to the north, hazy southward into the sun. If the winter was unceasing it was also for the moment out of tricks: standard cold, standard breeze, standard ambient frozen matter. Beside the bodega flowers, under the ever-higher angle of the light, one could pretend to catch an intimation of spring.
“I will never read The New Yorker again.” “NYC bores nowadays.” “Thank you New Yorker for helping me kill time the other day.” “I had lost interests in their article qualities so I stopped subscribing paper version a year ago.