Think About This
April 01, 2020
Since my second week of undergraduate classes at the University of Virginia in 2013, I have found a companion in my planner. My beautiful, color-coordinated, perfectly designed planner. I mean, I vividly remember breaking down in ugly tears the day I spilled my coffee on it during my Fourth year, and thinking “how will I survive without my plans?” My social life, my academic needs, my career trajectory and everything else that mattered, including “free time”, was scheduled inside those pages
Art by Kirsten Hemrich
March 04, 2020
I remember the first time I found out dads could cry. I was in the backseat of my mom's old Honda Accord tracing over the various pen marks on the headliner of her car, and it was February. I hated how the sun somehow always managed to be on my side of the car behind the passenger seat, but I wouldn't trade with my brother, Berkley. I would take the side with the heat against the sticky leather because he had the side with the weird, greenish gum stain on the seat, and it made me nauseated
Art by Kirsten Hemrich
February 14, 2020
I spent 20 days alone while abroad this summer, during which time I had ample opportunity to think about reading; I spent more time thinking about reading than actually reading. I read a lot, between 75 and 100 books per year. I also perform reading a lot, posting almost as many pictures of books on Snapchat and Instagram for no discernible reason. My obsession with books peaked in my first and second years of college, during which time I authorized that vacuum of a non-narrative (
November 14, 2019
The silver metallic ink may have faded a bit, but the words are still clearly visible: “For Abby ~ Travellin’ Music.” The precisely formed letters immediately evoke visions of sentences diagrammed on whiteboards, answer keys created together and shared, a teaching partnership of mutual encouragement and competition. Decades later, I wonder if either of us would have gone so far without those shared years. I suspect we would have—we were (are) both driven—but my journey would have lacked a
Art by Kirsten Hemrich
October 24, 2019
A few weeks ago, I was kneading bread and thinking about capitalism.
I spent fall break with my family and, over the course of a full day, took over the kitchen of my parents’ house to finally perfect my execution of the babka, an Eastern European sweetbread that has recently become InstaFamous. With clinical precision, I measured out cups of flour, feeling a stupid thrill go through me after I poured a packet of
Art by Kirsten Hemrich
October 24, 2019
As October rolls into motion at UVA, I’m reminded of all the reasons my heart soars when the seasonal clock strikes fall. Yellow leaves on Rugby Road outline the branches they dare to escape from, and Lawn rooms stacked with firewood hint at wiggling toes against crackling fireplaces. The air tastes fresh like bus stop breaths on elementary school mornings and feels crisp like a farmer’s market apple. I’ve always been partial to fall. If the seasons were cups of porridge, I think it’s safe
Art by Kirsten Hemrich
October 24, 2019
Ten Years Old. Before even walking into the store, I am hit by the scent of Abercrombie & Fitch “Fierce” wafting into the mall. My fifth-grade mind had learned to associate this smell with attractive men shirtless on the beach, and preppy clothing galore. The smell of cardamom and citrus becomes even more pungent as I enter, my eyes adjusting to the dim lighting and taking in the upbeat pop music. It’s the definition of sensory overload. Before the obnoxiously attractive guy at the door
Art by Kirsten Hemrich
October 24, 2019
You will be asked one question when your house drops in Oz.
“Are you a good witch or a bad witch?”
Witches’ allegiances are straightforward in The Wizard of Oz (1939). It’s safe to assume that green-faced women commanding monkey armies will steal your shoes and kill your dog, while human Peeps who travel in pink bubbles and sing to munchkins will, well, not. Every child knows “only bad witches are ugly.”
Outside of Oz, as the 1975 clusterfuck Monty Python and
Art by Kirsten Hemrich
October 24, 2019
you did not make it quick.
There was no knife to scrape my bones,
—no knife to puncture my flesh,
It was bruises, it was blue, it was black,
It was ugly.
My wounds sank deep, pinning me in my plot
They twisted my insides, turned my stomach to stone.
jagged rock jutting from flesh,
Not marble—nor onyx, but coarse, unsightly grey.
The crudeness, the cruelty of my body hidden.
For I am murdered!—yet you
Art by Kirsten Hemrich
October 02, 2019
My nickname in my friend group is “the emotional toilet.” Not really the most glamorous of nicknames. Essentially it refers to my tendency to become someone for the people in my life (mostly men) to vent to and drop their emotional baggage on without expecting the favor to be returned. I’ve always prided myself on being a good listener and trying to help people solve their issues. Being needed can be addicting sometimes, but there’s a fine line between helping someone and trying to “fix”