I love a clear, rising moon. Not the bad kind, mind you. The Caspar kind. Not the friendly ghost (that’s reserved for Devon Sawa), but Caspar David Friedrich, the early 19th century German romantic landscape artist, whose first comprehensive exhibition in the US, Caspar David Friedrich: The Soul of Nature, opened earlier this month at the Met. Honestly, I cannot believe it’s taken this long for a holistic Friedrich exhibition to hit the US. His work is particularly singular and has always stood out. Friedrich didn't think like his contemporaries; what he painted—how he painted—he was ahead of his time.

I've been sick all week, occupying myself with the miserable activities of the indisposed—breathing steam, hoarding tissues, brewing copious amounts of herbal teas, deciding between uninspiring medicine combinations—it’s all deplorably tedious. Plus, thanks to round-the-clock frowning, my forehead has aged no less than 10 years over the last seven days. I swear to god it looks and feels like someone took a fucking carving knife to my head and scored the number eleven between my brows, bearing down as hard as they could.

I’ve always had a tenuous relationship with my hair, particularly the stuff on my head and forearms. The hair covering my scalp is a bitch, a grueling combination of body, frizz, curls, waves, fine, and thick—wholly uncooperative with a mind of its own. Too much time and money has been spent on changing the cut, color, and texture of my hair. I’ve also tried shaving the problem away at least three times (growing that out is an even bigger bitch). My arm hair isn’t as bad; it’s just dark and there’s a lot of it. I’ve waxed it off twice in my life, and regretted it both times. Not because it was painful (which it was) or I missed the hair (never), but because the black stubble is so much uglier than the fine soft hair it eventually becomes.

It’s currently mid-February, and the Williamsburg Duane Reade has already begun dollying up its store with Easter holiday merchandise. Perhaps if Duane Reade was a quirky neighbor on my block known for putting up decorations two months too early, I’d be sympathetic. But Duane Reade is not my neighbor; it’s a company, and it doesn’t give two shits about springtime or holiday spirit. Duane Reade moves up its merchandizing schedule earlier each year because its profitable. So when I see chocolate bunnies, basket grass, and plastic eggs in the height of winter, I’m not charmed; I’m revolted.

Friends, Over the weekend, New York City and me agreed to an open relationship for the foreseeable future. After nearly 16 years together, we feel it's the best thing for us. The decision was mutual. I’d like to meet other cities, and New York wants to explore the swell of transplants it's put on hold for the last decade out of respect for me, which, personally, I think is a great idea; New Yorkers just aren't what they used to be, and the two of us suspect our exclusivity is to blame.

In 2025, I cannot think of a situation more straightforward or dire than Israel's illegal occupation of Palestine. For Americans still wrestling over the “complexity” of the Palestinian plight, hindsight offers us examples of indisputable right vs. wrong, oppressed vs. oppressor, colonized vs. colonizer—chattel slavery, Native American genocide, South African apartheid, and the Holocaust immediately spring to mind. When looking back, we know these things to be wrong (well, hopefully you do). But what about this moment, when looking around at the here and now?

When I first heard Mr. Morale & the Big Steppers, I felt understood, vindicated. Hell yes, I thought, Kendrick reads Eckhart Tolle, too. I was surprised to hear Tolle’s voice throughout the album—he’s one of the few spiritual wizards that have actually made sense to me. Being a skeptic at heart, I’ve always had a staunch aversion to the realms of spirit and self-help. It took me a while to warm up to Tolle, and I only made the time because my therapist had asked me to. She had me read A New Earth. It’s one of two self-help books I’ve actually finished, the second being The Artist’s Way. Both have their flaws, major ones that had me cringing and questioning why I was bothering with the material. But they also contain infinitesimal seeds of ideas and shifts, potent ones that bloom with time and reflection. It made the difference.

Call me your run-of-the-mill millennial, but I love urban spaces dripping with greenery—apartments, atriums, nightclubs, salons, coffee shops, IDGAF. In part because it looks cool, but also, there’s nothing like the feeling of being enveloped in nature in the middle of a city. Beyond the visual impact, there’s a tangibly atmospheric quality about a shit-ton of well-placed healthy indoor plants, like a primordial invitation for peace and respite amid modernity’s ubiquitous grays and relentless hustle.