I tell him these stories about my experience as a woman going about the world and he can never BELIEVE it — this idea that people will just, as I put it, traverse the chasm of individual personhood and feel the need/perogative to COMMENT on you and how you are going about your life —and I was resigned to the fact that he would never really witness it. How could he be with me at the same time I was in the world alone with myself? How can someone you love, someone who is part of your subjectivity, ever really experience you as other people do?

Life is hard. Here is someone.:  

I love this story.  Also, seriously fuck those dude bikeswarmers. I always think of them — especially the ones who ride their expensive bikes in full lycra in Prospect Park on the weekends and are palpably annoyed by everyone who’s not going full Tour de France-speed — as “the lawyers.” (I have zero evidence that any of them are lawyers, but that’s how I think of them.)