Anna* is a woman in her mid-twenties who is studying for her Master’s degree in New York City at an Ivy League University. When she was denied financial aid, she sought out alternative methods to pay for school. She signed up for a website that focuses on sugar dating, where her company is valued by an exchange of an allowance or gifts. In this interview, we discuss her personal life, her lifestyle, and her opinion on sugaring.
Like any young family, some conversations had to be foregone. Some battles, forfeited.
Kiss by kiss/I build you
Jenny Offill’s casually devastating new novel “Weather” is a lovely, quietly ticking timebomb.
Mira Jacob is the author and illustrator of Good Talk: A Memoir in Conversations. Her critically acclaimed novel, The Sleepwalker’s Guide to Dancing, was a Barnes & Noble Discover New Writers pick, shortlisted for India’s Tata First Literature Award, and long-listed for the Brooklyn Literary Eagles Prize.
If you find that you are the type of person who is constantly at war with these two alternating states of self—where obligations can be ditched at a moment’s notice, or begrudgingly followed through—then you will feel right at home in the world of “Imaginary Museums” by Nicolette Polek.
My mother wanted things.
The aging bad boy of French letters’ latest outing exhausts nearly half its word count rehashing tired material. Then, when an antidepressant finally renders his narrator impotent, it picks up.
The wind pulls a crystal from my eye
The section for cash held a Trojan condom, but when his wife came to claim the contents of her dead husband’s pants, she said he’d had a vasectomy.
radical tenderness.
Before you go to school for the first time, you learn how to talk nice.
Grafton Tanner conjures the ghosts in our devices and invites us to join their chatroom. You’ll leave haunted.
The strongest brown body that I know shrinks in public
What is striking about Lerner’s third novel is the way it implicates itself, its forms—literature, prose, poetry—in the collapse of public discourse, and the proliferation of “man-children.”
Dave was a pathological flake, and after three years of dating, I still wasn’t used to his absolute surprise, confusion, and disappointment.
Burke lurks in the far corner of my bedroom when the lights are out and I’m in bed, wedged between my IKEA pillows.
I can’t pinpoint the moment I met Lidudumalingani. Throughout my time in Cape Town I encountered him at film festivals, talks on creativity, live music events, book gatherings and around the dinner tables of mutual friends.
I guzzled down my twenties
