This piece on campus suicide and perfection is a really great, really tough read, and also, do better, Kathryn’s parents:
Expectations were high. Every day at 5 p.m. test scores and updated grades were posted online. Her mother would be the first to comment should her grade go down. “I would get home from track and she would say, ‘I see your grade dropped.’ I would say, ‘Mom, I think it’s a mistake.’ And she would say, ‘That’s what I thought.’ ” (The reason turned out to be typing errors. Ms. DeWitt graduated with straight A’s.)
Richard Bernstein, a Man Who Owns Two Day Spas, had things to say about the nail salon expose. People had things to say about what he had to say.
I definitely did not know this had happened:
Predictably, activity trackers have raised privacy concerns. In 2011, many FitBit users discovered that the profiles that they had created on the FitBit website turned up in Google searches—exposing a ton of private information, including sexual activity they had logged (“15 min passive, light effort”; “3 min active and vigorous”). Since then, the company has taken steps to prove it cares.
Jaya, you’re gross, also, I too have pooped in that Barnes & Noble:
I have a mental map of everywhere in New York City I can freely do my business outside of my apartment in relative secrecy. There are the bathrooms halfway down the stairs to the Bethesda Fountain in Central Park, where the stall doors are too squat but everything smells decent. There’s the 4th floor of Century 21, where nobody will find you amid the hoards of tourists ripping through discount prom dresses. There’s the door behind the children’s book section of the Union Square Barnes & Noble, and the basement of the Old Navy in SoHo, and Grand Central Terminal and Penn Station and the Port Authority. Of course there are plenty of diners and Starbucks’ where I could order a coffee in exchange, but this is not Urinetown. I have a volatile stomach and I should not have to pay to relieve it.
Matt and Jaya are here! We got tacos. We blog. It good.
Naomi Wolf, no.
I Feel Bad About My Knees, the book Nora Ephron never got to write.
beginning to think that men believe us to be humorless scolds only bc they cannot sense humor in the wild (also, he favorited his own tweet):
John Leavitt reading a piece he did for us:
