Good Grief.

My posts have become far more sporadic, and as my priorities change, I’m finding that my lifestyle no longer allows for polished personal narratives. I’m getting in the way of my writing by constantly skirting a draft because of the time required to write something substantial, and so I’m exploring different ways to meet my needs—one being my natural desire to regularly produce meaningful content.

So I’m trying to cozy up to a style that champions stream-of-consciousness and real-time experiences to improve my frequency.

Continue reading Good Grief.

Love Letter.

In 9th grade, I wrote a love letter to a boy. I imagine it was entirely dramatic—depicting my teenage longing and the color of his eyes with gag-inducing metaphors—but genuinely heartfelt, and honest nonetheless. And while I tried my hardest to emulate the letter-writing greats, like Oscar Wilde and John Keats, my letter read like a scene from Degrassi with the raw emotion of a Dashboard Confessional hit.

Continue reading Love Letter.

Liar. Liar.

If there is one thing our parents raised us to be, it’s honest people. Growing up, we were given the space and the freedom to make our own mistakes with the expectation that no matter the grandeur of our follies, we would clean up our messes with a little grace, and a lot of truth. Liars were not welcome at our kitchen table.

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V-Day.

As a uniquely named child, I lost when it came to one of life’s cheaper thrills; monogrammed heart keychains. Dig as I may through the spinning tower of trinkets, I knew I’d never find a “Vicari” among the sea of abundant “Veronicas” and “Victorias.” I never wished for a re-name, but as a tiny, fashion-forward human, a sister just wanted a sparkly Vicari-heart dangling from her backpack. So I often settled for my first initial etched onto some cheap piece of nothing.

Continue reading V-Day.