Remember the good old days?
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fLeXtInG ;)

February 14, 2014 • 0
There’s flirting, and there’s texting, and there’s flexing, and then, there’s flexting. Flexting, not unlike flexing, in that it is a display of muscle power (finger muscles, naturally), is the love child of flirting and texting. In the simplest possible definition: flirty texting. The term flexting entered my vocabulary the other day as my friend anxiously checked the time stamp of his most recently sent text to a potential romantic interest. 8:35, fuck. My friend had, he dejectedly explained, sent his last “flext” at 7:52, forty minutes after he had received a flext (7:12, post-meridiem), which meant that it had been 43 minutes with nothing. No banter-laden retort, no emoji, no hope.
Can't get more awkward than this.

WOADS: Women Only Appreciate Dancing Solo

September 20, 2013 • 0
For thirteen-year-olds, the stakes are always high. But never are the stakes more fatal than at a middle school dance. Fluorescent hallway lights seeping into the gym ballroom, threatening to reveal the pimples on the faces of the pubescent crowd cowering in the corners. And for a particular brown-haired girl with little to no fashion or social sensibility, those dances meant hovering around the outside of the bobbing dancers, heart beating.
Want some Chardonnay with your dinner?
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A date

May 16, 2013 • 4
He showed up at her door, 3B, at 6:58 PM. When he had promised over the phone that he would arrive at her apartment door promptly at seven PM, she had not stopped to consider the good deal of wiliness that it would take him to properly get into her building, pass the buzzer, and navigate the hallways to her difficult-to-find door, but as he stood in front of her with one disconcertingly vibrant pink carnation, she couldn’t help but wish she had worn her serrated headband for extra protection.
Lucie knew what she wanted. And she got it.
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The Decider, The Fan-Maker

February 22, 2013 • 0
Sitting, five years old, on an endless navy carpet, knees tucked to my chest, I remember the first and only moment I knew exactly what I wanted. I was in kindergarten, and we were learning about China. Although at this point in my life I knew very little, I did know how to get what I wanted. And that day, I wanted to make a fan. A beautiful, delicate, lacy fan — just like the ones that the elegant Chinese women would hide coyly behind in pictures.