Names have been changed. You can’t be gay in 1999. But I’m not, so that’s just fine. 1999: Sophomore year. Sitting in my car, my dad’s car really, the one I drive to school now, listening to the Counting Crows, feeling something tear open inside me,…

This journal is not the kind I usually buy. I stopped at CVS on the way home, telling myself they’d have the perfect thing, talking myself out of a drive across town in evening traffic to pick up a Moleskine at Barnes and Noble. And they did have the…

I begin to realize my relationship is over when my boyfriend starts cleaning his gun in our apartment. It’s his apartment, really. He owns it, if you can call taking out a huge mortgage with zero down “owning it” at all. I pay him rent. I helped pick…