I’m not ready to talk about the separation of Ariana Grande and Peter Davidson yet. I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready.  

There are no cute intros in Gilead. 

Every woman I know is exhausted to the point of hospitalization à la every tabloid celebrity in the mid-2000s, so let’s just get to it. 

It’s National Voter Registration Day today. But honestly, if you read Staunchly and are not already registered, what are you even doing here?

Show me a guy whose first instinct when a woman is asleep is to reach for her tit, and I’ll show you a dude who doesn’t really respect women.

Last Monday was Labor Day, so I took the day off to honor the historical contributions of organized labor to the cultural and political fabric of this country and to shop the Sephora Rouge sale. Look, capitalism is messy. It makes fools of us all.

I went to Color Me Mine twice. In one weekend. Two separate studios, both in and very much of the Valley. Why? I can’t really explain it.

It really feels like we’re in an age of transformational art. I feel like I’ve consumed so much culture recently that has changed the way I see the world: BlacKkKlansman, Nanette, Cher in Mamma Mia: Here We Go Again, to name a few. 

There’s a line in Taffy Brodesser-Akner’s exquisite profile of Gwyneth Paltrow for the New York Times Magazine this week where Gwynnie says that she “only ever wanted to be someone who recommended things.”
 
I felt that line right in my jade egg.

Happy Leo season! Or is it tomorrow? I can’t get a handle on these cusps for the life of me. All I’ll say is that today I said to my mom, “I just don’t even feel like you’re engaging with my content,” which—I’m sorry—if that does not signal the start of Thirsty Carnivorous Showboat Month, I don’t know what does.