I get it. You’ve offered everyone in the room your home-baked cookies and, knowing full well they have eggs and milk in them, feel somewhat guilty that I, the vegan, will not be partaking. But let it be know across the land, vocalizing to the room “Sorry, Caitlin, you cannot eat these,” is not the solution to assuaging said guilt.
In fact, you’ve now made me feel guilty myself. Or, rather, a little embarrassed. Not to mention, I very well can eat them; I’m just choosing not to do so.
You’re likely already aware of the decisions that led me…
It seems, as of late, every friend and acquaintance I follow on social media either created or buffed up an Etsy page, presumably with hopes of profiting from their restless hands.
It could be easy to accredit the surge in creative productivity to the increased down time. An article titled “The coronavirus shutdown is revealing America’s troubling obsession with work” went viral early on in the pandemic, forecasting either burnout or anxiety as our bodies and minds reel from years of brutal momentum.
Nowadays, I’m hard-pressed to find anyone who isn’t facing some level of skin crisis. Whether it be acne from mask-harbored bacteria or 2020-induced stress lines, we’re all suffering. I was a six-year veteran of my skin care line until this past year pushed me beyond its capacities. Thankfully, at the near-end of our near-apocalypse, I found a brand that brought me back from the brink.
It hits all of my ethics checkpoints (more on that later), and it came in a little gift set with samples of everything I needed for an effective trial run. Enter: Biossance.
While the patrons to your spread may be limited this season, the thought of slacking on accoutrements at the near-end of this miserable year is almost too much to bear. If anything, as larger, centerpiece classics like roast and casserole go to excess even in full company, this is an opportunity to get creative with our holiday dining rituals.
While charcuterie may bring to mind COVID vectors in the way of finger knocking over buffet-style snacks, let’s reimagine the experience. The alternative is to sit people face-to-face at a rough four-foot distance, passing serving utensils before palming a dinner roll…
By Caitlin Morgan
It was clear and hot, and I was dragging my feet around the steps of an underpass, hiding from an assaulting sky and trying to make a dance out of it. I could feel the thinness of the atmosphere: a worn-in blanket tugged threadbare over my skin.
This dance was — is — my introvert weapon. Nobody drives cars anymore, so these pockets of concrete are the perfect escape. The whirring pods move too quickly for the passengers to register my presence and I trust the autonomous steering mechanisms will keep them from colliding with me…
It’s 9:36 in the morning and I awake to two emails, four texts, and an Instagram direct message, the bulk of which were sent at some late hour, far past my self-prescribed bedtime.
I ignore the notifications and slump to the coffee pot, where two more dings assault me from the other room.
Pre-pandemic me would have left my phone on the bed and felt entirely comfortable spinning a lie for why I didn’t return the messages until hours later. …
It’s impossible to tell when the societal effects of the COVID-19 pandemic will subside, but at least for American residents, it’s looking like the #quarantinelife will be our reality for quite some time still.
Whether you’re a true book worm and have nearly exhausted your shelf with the excess down time, or you’ve never really been a reader, but you’ve run the gamut of Netflix series and home improvement projects, here’s a list of texts curated in anticipation of our eventual reintegration.
Published earlier this year, Popkey’s narrator unveils and negotiates raw layers of her self image by recalling conversations…
When people ask me when I began dancing, the response they so often anticipate is some infantile age at which they can imagine my mother waiting for me in the lobby of a studio, my hair tugged back in a bun, chasing around a slim figure in pointe shoes. That simply was not the case for me, nor do I believe it is a fair default for many.
I am sitting on the corner of 71st and Broadway on the phone with my mother, telling her, “I didn’t get the job, but!” when a pigeon shits its days’ worth of New York refuse down my hair and bare shoulder, just missing the seam of my dress.
Holding my hair in a knot to contain the excrement and huffing up the street in my blood-stained interview shoes, I find a Trader Joes and dip inside, on the hunt for a public bathroom. …
Dancer, activist, & BK resident, putting the world around me in print. I offer invention, advice, critique, & rants (disguised aptly as the former three).