POST GRAD GAZETTE
Diner Moments From The Editor
It’s the week before I leave home for probably ever and my brother and I are eating at Waffle House. In the year since I’ve moved back, it’s become our little tradition. Drive up to Waffle House, stuff ourselves, and walk around Super Target. It’s painfully suburban and I look forward to it like nothing else, craving syrup and the last morsel of suburbia before I make my great, twenty-four years in the making escape to NYC. He gets a grand slam, I get chocolate chip waffles and bacon. I’ve always wanted to leave, I was tortured by the thought of moving back home, but in moments like this, in the comfortable silence, I can see a life where I stay. I wish I could keep it a little longer. I wish I could get Waffle House with my brother every week, drive to Target, and sit in the softness of a life I know for as long as I need to.
This must be love, I think, as without a word Paul pulls the tomato from his own sandwich to put into my tuna melt. I open his cream soda for him, happy he is one of the few people I know who share a love for it, and split our fries somewhat evenly. I push my lemonade to the middle of the table, sharing implied. It’s the third time we’ve been to Old John’s, and I am happy it is slowly becoming a tradition, a place of ours. We sit next to an old couple. The wife takes entirely too long to order, and Paul grins at me, wordlessly we share a laugh at my mirrored indecisiveness. Yes, I think, this is what love is, talking without talking and knowing without guessing and sharing without thought.
The sun has just been up for an hour or so, I’ve been up for at least four. My dad took me turkey hunting. I don’t care much for hunting, or waking up early, or sitting quietly for long stretches. My dad knows this and brought me what every seventh-grade girl dreams of: a 6-pack of glass Starbucks frappuccinos and a new Pretty Little Liars book to occupy the time. Afterwards, luckily with no turkeys killed, we go to Denny’s. The cups are fancier than I thought they’d be. We sit and watch the sun, delirious and wired from being up before it. I didn’t want to come, but now, as I sit across from my dad with a pile of pancakes, I am happy I did.
My mom eats ketchup with eggs. I always thought that was gross, ketchup with anything that wasn’t fries. I miss her this summer, more homesick than usual. At The Orion diner, I get hash browns and two scrambled eggs. The ketchup that was meant for my potatoes makes its way across my plate to a bite of eggs. I think, my mom was right, which I find myself saying more and more the older I get. I eat the rest of my meal with her in mind; it’s almost like she’s there.
It’s early at a diner on the Upper East Side. I am still fresh enough in the city to not know the name. Brenna, Leah, and I just had a sleepover. I am wearing a horrible, mostly pajama-based outfit. My friends order bad diner coffee, and I get something with avocado in it. Food doesn’t scare me like it once did; in fact, as of late, life hasn’t been scaring me like it once did. I sit —Rachel Loring
AN ARGUMENT FOR GOOD ENDINGS
by Danny Diaz
Superman saved someone today, how vulnerable and brave, In the end he chose peace over death!
Though it once had been the norm, I haven’t seen the uniform choose kindness in a while, how fresh!
The evil witch got caught, how terribly cruel, she left such pain and devastation in her wake. But then the sun shone blue, and after a surprising laugh or two
The kids in this one would turn out to be okay!
And the wrestler chose peace, at the expense of his career, He redefined what it meant to win. He cried and fell down to the floor, Rather than hide it anymore: Sometimes pain is more a warning than a friend.
And the man had it rough, and lost what little he had. His prospects dried up and so left his love. But in the long run of life, she missed the things without a price. She chose his heart, and maybe that is enough.
“Here’s something sad” said the pundit, “Here’s something mad” said the clown It’s felt like regardless of where you go, there’s always something getting worse another day, another hearse. There’s plenty of funding for “the bad news show”.
Now I’m no wise, hip, young, old street philosopher, who can argue things ain’t really that bad. But I’m mighty tired of “there’s no point.” “We’re doomed enough, so smoke the joint” Since when has apathy ever been such a fad?
But I’m not alone, I’m finding out, who’s sorta bored of all the doubt. It’s time for the cynic’s reign to come to an end. There’s movies micro-dosed with hope, books and songs ain’t just to cope. The revolution could be brewing joy instead.
It ain’t denial of what’s hard, the mirror’s constant and never far, Asking how much worse a given day could be. But we get a say in all of this, how to adapt and digest it. It’s not our fault, but we do bring agency.
So I ignore what kids call “cringe,” and delete what I used to binge I’m thinking it’s time for a new philosophy. Or maybe it’s one that’s rather old, once forgotten, but now retold: There’s no shame in life with hopeful reverie.
LATE NIGHT DATING SHOW MENU
by Olivia deMontmorency
Some people end their summer with a crispy sunburn and a fling they regret. My roommates and I ended ours with root beer floats, theme-song choreography, a burning passion for a man named Mateo, and seven seasons of reality dating shows under our belts. It’s called bonding.
Our living room became that cozy corner booth, and the drama unraveling on our TV was pure four a.m. diner delirium. The public (my roommates and I) have voted, and I can now reveal that the shows going on our Late-Night Dating Show Menu are…..
(insert dramatic, heart-thumping elimination music here)
HOT COFFEE
Love Island UK Season 12
This hot cup of coffee is so bad it’s good. And that is what is so consistent about it. Sometimes it’s bitter, sometimes you dump in way too much sugar, but you drink it anyway. Love Island UK S12 was by far the most toxic of seasons: the men were gaslighting, the white women played victim while bullying the women of color, and the three girl besties stole the show (and our hearts). It was so bad it was good. Logistically, Love Island airs every day but Sunday, so you need at least one cup of coffee to keep up.
SMILEY FACE PANCAKE
Love Island USA Season 7
“I swear I was obsessed with this when I was a kid! I have to try it now!” You’re 27, ordering the funny-face pancake you once loved. You talk it up to your friends, but when the lonely pancake arrives with a half-melted smile, you wonder what was ever so funny about it. Love Island USA S7 is that pancake. As a kid (last season) it was all you talked about, but as an adult (this season), it’s just a sad excuse for a stack of pancakes. The only difference? My funny-face pancake never got kicked off the menu for racist tweets.
I Kissed A Boy Season 1 FULL BREAKFAST
It’s chocolate-chip pancakes, scrambled eggs, hashbrowns, and lots—I mean LOTS—of sausage. “Get yer willies out!” (iykyk). While it flew under the radar, this show is one of the best dating shows I’ve ever seen. Boys from across the U.K. are paired up and must immediately share a kiss upon arrival…as in before even meeting (yes, it’s extremely awkward). It’s like a reverse Love Island: 100% gay, set up in a Masseria (goodbye villas), and hosted by Dannii Minogue (Kylie’s sister & so much more). It’s everything you ordered and then some. You leave full, content, and a little giddy – which never happens on straight reality dating shows.
DATING
SPECIAL WITH SECRET SAUCE BREAKFAST ARRIVES BUT THEY MESSED UP YOUR EGGS
I Kissed A Boy Season 2
It was always too good to be true. How could your order taste as good the second time? Where is the connection? Where is the spark? IKAB S2 is full of matches who swear they’ll last, but barely make it out of the Masseria. Worse—they’re boring. There’s no one to stand ten toes down for. Who am I rooting for? The ingredients are all on my plate, so what’s the problem? Am I the problem???
SANDWICH
MEATLOAF (DAY-OLD) PIE OF THE DAY
I Kissed A Boy Season 1 Are You My First? Season 1
It’s time for a slight change of pace. You’ve had enough breakfast and need something to sink your teeth into. This sandwich is layered with a secret sauce that makes every bite a new and worthwhile experience. You’re left on your toes – just like IKAG. Same premise, but now for queer women. My watch party and I had strong opinions—who we loved, who we hated. And every single one flipped at least once an episode. The drama was intense and you cannot get enough. #AmyStan.
Dry as a bone. Yes, this is the virgin show. A group of people who’ve never faced real adversity in their life decide they want to whine about still being virgins. The wildest part? They’re pissed society won’t stop talking about virginity—while making it their whole personality. Grow up. No one cares. And when you see how emotionally immature they are, it starts to make sense. I’ll admit, I appreciated that the eliminations were referred to as “virgin sacrifices.” But overall, you look at this dish and wonder: who is this really for? Oh, right—the virgins.
Love Is Blind UK Season 2
Pie is predictable. You know what you’re getting—not the best dessert of your life, just steady consistency. Love is Blind UK S2 delivered exactly that. The men were as traditional (and bland) as pie crust. The irony? This is the pie that Billy wouldn’t let Ashleigh buy from the store. Ouch. If he’s controlling your pie intake, what’s next? I do ride for Megan and Kieran. They were the surprise slice of apple in a case of rhubarb.
Books To Read This Fall
byIsabellaDawson
WILD DARK SHORE
Charlotte McConaghy
I can’t say enough good things about this book. The atmosphere is truly beautiful, haunting, and alive. Wild Dark Shore is about a family of four living on an island in the middle of nowhere, the closest place being Antarctica. They are looking after a seed vault there, filled with species of seeds to save for the future if fires and floods wipe out the earth’s plants and crops. One day a woman washes ashore, and the story will take you through the suspense of why she is really there and why the family is so worried about this newcomer. The father, two sons, and daughter are some of the most complex characters I have read in a long time. This story explores the complexity of grief through these characters in a really moving way, and it will leave a real impact on you. I can guarantee a good sob will occur after finishing this book. It’s a perfect fall transition read, with darker undertones and haunting vibes.
THE FAVORITES Layne Fargo
The Favorites is a messy Kat and Heath, elite skating a loaded history. Fargo job writing a strong, character who struggles her commitment to her to be with the one she and love and tragedy, with Kat’s narration of interviews from other characters (think Daisy Jones and put this book down, and rooting for these characters story despite all their flaws they make along the way
messy love story between skating partners with Fargo does an amazing strong, complex female struggles with balancing her craft and wanting loves. There’s drama structured partially the story, and part characters in the book and the Six). I couldn’t you will find yourself characters and their love flaws and the mistakes way to success.
THE KNIGHT AND THE MOTH
Rachel Gillig
This was my anticipatory romantasy read of the year, and it didn’t disappoint. I read it in the early summer, but this book gives the ultimate fall reading vibes, think walking through a mist-cloaked forest with a brooding knight. It’s gothic and interesting, much like Gillig’s other books. The book follows Sybil, a diviner who has spent her life dreaming for others, with the power to tell all who come to her the fate of their future. Her fellow Diviners begin to vanish one by one, and she enlists a certain handsome, recently arrived knight, Rodrick, to help her find answers. There is a hilarious side character who will have you laughing out loud, a gargoyle bound to protect Sybil through her journey, mystery, romance, and some shocking turns to the story, with an ending that will have you begging for the next book.
PARIS: THE MEMOIR
Paris Hilton
I randomly started this audiobook on a whim, and it ended up being one of the most touching and shocking memoirs I have ever read. When you think of Paris Hilton, you may think of the glitz and glamour and wealth she exudes. This story strips all that down and goes back to her haunting childhood of abuse, trauma, and how she got through it. I admire her so much after hearing her story, and I’m genuinely inspired by her bravery and ability to go through what she did and still create such a happy life for herself. This will make you cry and want to scream as you’re listening or reading to the horrific ways in which she was treated.
Rachel Williams
Graphite on Paper
WHAT I WOULD SING IF I WORKED AT
ELLENS STARDUST DINER
Sides & Desserts
BASED ON MY CUSTOMERS’ ORDERS
by Brenna McWha
HOLY MOLY
FRENCH TOAST LOVE SONG, SARA BAREILLES
Something about the exclamation ahead of “French Toast” feels cheugy. Could it really be THAT good? In my head, the same person who loves Love Song, would say “holy moly” when eating midtown diner French toast.
BLT MOVES LIKE JAGGER, MAROON 5
These two give the same, basic energy to me. Also, I think I ate a lot of BLTs around the time this came out.
BLT, NO PICKLE ON THE SIDE LOSER, BECK
I would hope this one would be selfexplanatory.
YANKEE DOODLE BURGER
THINK OF ME, PHANTOM OF THE OPERA
I can only imagine what goes into the Yankee Doodle Burger, but whatever it is, I assume after consuming it’s straight to TAT (tummy ache time). This would be the ode I’d sing after retiring to the restroom for the remainder of the evening.
FRUITY PEBBLES PANCAKES
SEASONS OF LOVE, RENT
I immediately thought of the Rent album cover (rainbow), which also happens to be the same colors as Fruity Pebbles (rainbow).
NEW YORK SCHMEAR
MAKE EM LAUGH, SINGIN’ IN THE RAIN
The word “schmear” makes me laughit just sounds so silly. I can very clearly conjure up an image of Donald O’Connor ordering this exact meal.
MOZZARELLA TRIANGLES
YOU’RE BEAUTIFUL, JAMES BLUNT
The. Cheese. Pull.
ELLEN’S STARDUST CITY BROWNIE
GOOD GIRLS GO BAD, COBRA STARSHIP
The amount of sugar in a brownie topped with vanilla ice cream and fudge could keep you up all night. And what happens when you’re up all night? You dance your little butt off at the club like Leighton Meester did in this music video.
11:27
in Erie, Pennsylvania
Iby Catherine Trouillot
remember sitting in the backseat.
Face leaning out of the window, hair tangled and wild from the wind. The Passion Pit album blaring loudly in the background, my friends screaming lyrics they definitely did not fully know, and feeling the breeze cool my cheeks. The air was loud and messy and I have never felt so alive in my entire life.
I remember the diners.
Seven bleary-eyed girls squished into a booth clearly meant for four. Our knees touched under the table, our elbows stacked like Jenga pieces, fragile and waiting to fall over. All of us were dizzy with excitement; we had just ordered Shirley temples. I remember the waitress’ smile when all seven of us ordered one. We smiled back like we owned the world.
I remember the fizz of soda against the roof of my mouth. The overhead fluorescent light of the diner made our cheeks look big, and eyes wide. My stomach cramped from laughing.
At some point, I said something so stupid, everyone’s necks quickly bent, faces pinched, and shoulders shook. No one could breathe.
I remember looking around and thinking: this is all I want to do for the rest of my life.
How could anyone want anything else?
What was romance compared to this? I had the entire world here, in this booth, in Erie, Pennsylvania. I physically could not wrap my head around it. It was a mystery to me, one that I never felt I would need to solve.
The purest human emotions live in a 17-year-old girl when she is surrounded by her best friends.
And now at 23, we live scattered across state lines, separated by time zones and Google calendars. Sometimes, late at night, when the world is quiet and the moon hangs low, I think about all of us. How we sat in diners, empty fields, and abandoned amphitheaters. No phones, no directions, no urgency whatsoever. Just quiet laughter and the kind of happiness that is unspoken. It only exists for that moment in time, and it will stay there forever.
FRAZZLED ENGLISH WOMAN SEASON
IT’S TOO EARLY, YOUR HAIR’S STILL DAMP, AND YOUR COFFEE IS ALREADY LUKEWARM. THE SUN’S CREEPING UP, THE WORLD IS BUZZING, AND YOU’RE RUNNING TEN MINUTES LATE…AGAIN.
A PLAYLIST BY MACY KISSEL
TOM’S DINER DNA
SUDDENLY I SEE KT TUNSTALL
WHERE YOU LEAD I WILL FOLLOW CAROLE KING
THERE SHE GOES THE LA’S
HERE’S WHERE THE STORY ENDS THE SUNDAYS
CHAMPAGNE SUPERNOVA OASIS
FALLIN’ FOR YOU COLBIE CAILLAT
LITTLE LIES FLEETWOOD MAC
I’M EVERY WOMAN CHAKA KHAN
THE POST GRAD GAZETTE NEW YORK, NY
Becoming A Diner Person
by Mia Orgochock
“I
saw my life branching out before me like the green fig tree in the story. From the tip of every branch, like a fat purple fig, a wonderful future beckoned and winked. One fig was a husband and a happy home and children, and another fig was a famous poet and another fig was a brilliant professor, and another fig was Ee Gee, the amazing editor, and another fig was Europe and Africa and South America, and another fig was Constantin and Socrates and Attila and a pack of other lovers with queer names and offbeat professions, and another fig was an Olympic lady crew champion, and beyond and above these figs were many more figs I couldn’t quite make out.”
It was a diner that, I believe, determined the fig I would choose from my tree. I was ten when I took my first trip to New York City, my midwestern family making the seventeen-hour drive to the East Coast.
The most salient memory I have from the trip is not the ferry to Ellis Island, not the walk across the Brooklyn Bridge, not even seeing the city sprawl before me from the top of 30 Rockefeller; it was in the cracked, red pleather booth of a diner in the West Village. The scene was not entirely pleasant; it was an unseasonably warm day, and we were seated near a window that trapped heat like a greenhouse. A table near us housed four children who screamed and ran circles around the diner. The pages of the classic breakfast menu stuck together, and the tabletop was tacky beneath our fingers.
Despite it all, and perhaps cliché to say, I fell in love with New York City in that diner. I, a bumbling, awkward, and oft-unfashionable preteen, watched as West Villagers began their Saturdays through the window. It was unbelievable to me that hair could be so glossy and coiffed at eight in the morning; each outfit unique and styled expertly, matching colors and patterns and materials and hemlines that I’d only ever seen on TV. It was their confidence — most of the elegant and cosmopolitan women in my little diner movie seemed to float. Those walking with their partners laughed, and it sounded like a song, and those alone looked ahead with a perceived determination I could only dream of fathoming.
I wanted to have it. I wanted to be one of them — a diner person, a New Yorker. To break out of my shell and become confident, effortless, beautiful, like them. It would take about twelve more years, but in January of 2022, I moved to Brooklyn. But the feeling I was chasing was marginal at best.
It feels like most days here, I fail to live up to my own self-imposed expectation of what it means to live here. I fail when I’m heartbroken and wearing the same holey sweatpants and 5-day unwashed hair to the coffee shop in the morning. I fail when I spend a beautiful Sunday in bed, hungover after drinking too much bad wine and smoking a regrettable cigarette the night before. I fail when my credit card statement shows all the times I ate out when I should have made that Trader Joe’s tikka masala. I fail when I glance at my reflection in passing windows and see my shoulders slope forward and slouch. I fail when I get my fucking period on the subway and I’m ten stops from my transfer to get home. It is sometimes hard to point to my life and say that things have quantifiably changed since I moved here.
But some days, I am one of the diner people.
Sometimes a feeling washes over – I have done my hair and my dress fits just right. The barista compliments my shoes, the bartender flirts with me and gives me a free drink, and I dance with strangers and friends under a disco ball. I try new cuisines and phenomenal restaurants and I spot beloved celebrities in a deli and I see graffiti that makes me laugh and learn to get over the particular trash smell in the East Village.
What I do know is that the preteenager in the diner that wanted so desperately to be a part of it all would be over the moon to know it happened – we are here, our foot is in the door. Even if it feels like my head is barely above water as I reach for the figs in my tree, we are here.
by Macy Kissel
Tunnel Vision
You are in the tunnel
And you’re running into walls thinking that there is no way out Every turn looks the same wandering blind screaming sounds fall flat against stone
But there is a light at the end
I know the route I just came from that side Take my hand we’ll walk slow
I’ll hold you through the dark step by step until we break into the light
BREAKFAST FOR DINNER
Iby Kiley Parrish
t’s 5:32 p.m. on a Sunday, and the kitchen smells like bacon and syrup. Waffle mix is scattered across the counter after three girls, my sisters and I, tried to help Mom make the perfect dinner. We used our go-to bowl, pink and covered with pictures of princesses, and I remember the thrill of trying to flip the waffles without making a mess. There’s something magical about breakfast at night. Maybe it’s the syrup glistening as it drips down the plate, the eggs sizzling a little louder than usual, or the way the pancakes steam when you break into them just right. When I was a kid, breakfast for dinner felt like a secret luxury, a tiny rebellion against the rules of time. We gathered around the barstools, buffet-style, piling our plates high with everything we loved. For a few moments, the world shrank to sticky fingers, the smell of bacon lingering, and the sound of laughter bouncing across the kitchen.
Even now, as an adult, I make breakfast for dinner for myself sometimes, scrambled eggs, bacon, fruit, chocolate-chip pancakes, and mugs of coffee so big they almost slip from my hands. There’s a thrill in the freedom of it: I can do it whenever I want, no permission needed, no schedule to follow. It’s a small indulgence, a reclaiming of childhood magic in a world that insists I be serious and practical.
When I think about the future, I imagine little hands reaching for blueberries, the soft chaos of children figuring out their own rhythm, and my kids crowding around the counter, insisting they get to flip the waffles themselves, arguing over which cartoon plays in the background, just like my sisters and I did. I imagine syrup pooling on the floor, chocolate chips disappearing too quickly, tiny voices giving their own rules for breakfast and dinner. And I smile, because I can pass on the magic I felt as a kid: the joy of bending time, of choosing indulgence, of knowing that some rules are meant to be broken.
Breakfast for dinner isn’t just a meal. It’s a ritual, a memory in motion, a reminder that joy can be small, wild, and simple all at once. It’s the clink of mugs, waffles steaming on the counter, chocolate chips scattered just so, and the warmth of people gathered around a table. One day, it will be my children’s secret luxury too, a tradition I hope they carry with them, just like I carry it with me, proof that some pleasures, no matter how small, never lose their magic.
Before I dissect, let me lay my qualifications on the table. I was a Taylor Swift fan since 1989 debuted, became truly invested in Reputation, and Folklore and Evermore helped me – like so many others – get through the pandemic. Midnights (unpopular opinion) remains one of my favorites. I even went to the Eras Tour.
But as the world became more polarized and the rights of many began disappearing, Taylor’s silence became harder to defend. It grew embarrassing to support someone with such an enormous platform who seemed unwilling to use it for anything of substance. Her latest decision, the release of her new album The Life of A Showgirl, only deepens that frustration.
I’ll start with my favorite, the opening track, “The Fate of Ophelia.” This album was produced by Max Martin and Shellback, the duo who gave us incredible songs from 1989 and Reputation. For that reason, a lot of these songs are produced well. In “The Fate of Ophelia,” the bridge simultaneously is the catchiest and most confusing; its meaning has me scratching my head:
“Keep it one hundred, On the land, the sea, the sky Pledge allegiance to your hands, your team, your vibes”
I have NO idea what that means. But the production is great.
Content Warning: I will now be criticizing Taylor Swift and this album. For the Swifties who refuse to hear any
dissent, turn back now.
There are multiple forgettable tracks on this album, but I want to focus on a few that really caught me off guard – should I even be caught off guard anymore?
Let’s start with “Wi$h Li$t”.
“They want that yacht life, under chopper blades
They want those bright lights and Balenci’ shades
They want it all, I just want you Have a couple kids, get the whole block looking like you
We tell the world to leave us thе fuck alone, and they do, wow.”
‘Wow’ is right! It has been a while since I’ve read lyrics so tone-deaf. It’s comical to write a song about how you
The Life ToneDeaf of a
don’t want a materialistic life, how you’d be happy just with a house, your man, and a bunch of his children, when you’re the richest female musician in the world. Swift’s fortune is worth an estimated $1.6 billion; this entire metaphor collapses on itself.
Come on guys! Everybody leave her “the fuck alone.” God forbid the most famous woman in the world, who goes to extravagant lengths to be the main character, now hopes you’ll leave her the fuck alone. Wow!
“Got me dreaming about a driveway with a basketball hoop,” she sings, romanticizing middle-class normalcy. Taylor isn’t interested in success or wealth (any more?). Unfortunately, we might be the wrong audience. This feels like a closed-door conversation you have with other rich people.
The meat and potatoes of my qualms is “Actually Romantic,” her rumored diss track aimed at Charli XCX.
“I heard you call me ‘Boring Barbie’ when the coke’s got you brave,” Taylor goes on, “Like a toy Chihuahua barking at me from a tiny purse.”
The cheap shots fall flat. It reads as petty gossip that she never factchecked. What’s worse is how little self-awareness the song shows of the dynamics of fame and female rivalry.
In contrast, Charli XCX’s own tracks
“Sympathy is a Knife” and “I Might Say Something Stupid” explore insecurity, comparison, and the toll of always being “almost enough.” She’s popular, but not enough. She’ll never be enough. Her introspection feels raw,
Billionaire
by Olivia deMontmorency
while Taylor’s feels like she reduced that nuanced inner turmoil to a smug punch line about obsession.
I was appalled when I heard Taylor, selfproclaimed “girl boss,” wrote this diss track. If Taylor once understood what it was like to experience misogyny in music and push back against that, you would have never known. Here, she contributes to it.
Overall, The Life of a Showgirl feels like an album made from inside a glasshouse: polished, expensive, and utterly disconnected from the world outside. I find myself increasingly disappointed in Taylor’s music and life choices, but what am I to expect from an out of touch billionaire? Unfortunately, not much.
LIFE’S RECENT SPECIALS
Order’s up! Here’s what’s been in store for me lately
by Rachel Loring
THE “DO I HAVE ANOTHER UTI?” SPECIAL!
Trough of cranberry jelly topped with a cranberry sauce and dusted with UQUORA flush drink powder. Perfect for those days when you just can’t stop peeing! Pairs well with frantic urology appointments and 6,000 pee tests, only to be told that you’re actually completely fine. Add a glass of cranberry juice for 2$. Add a Macrobid prescription for an additional 5$.
THE HEALTH ADVICE FROM REDDIT SPECIAL!
One piece of white toast and a side of white rice, because did you know that actually everything is going to kill you and you’re going to die? Drenched in stress sweat and served with directions to the nearest hospital and/or mental health specialist. Add an additional screentime app limitation for 2$.
THE ONE YEAR OLDER SPECIAL!
26 glasses of our finest prosecco
topped with fresh elderberry. Served with additional frontal lobe development and a sense of peace and happiness about finally being over the hump of early twenties. Add in wondering if back pain is now just a part of life for an additional 2$.
THE GETTING FOOD POISONING ON A ROMANTIC VACATION SPECIAL!
One slab of greasy late-night pizza served on top of pristine white hotel sheets. Topped with a Pepto Bismol drizzle and crumbled Alka-Seltzer tablets to soothe the worst stomach ache you’ll ever get in your entire life at 1 am. Add in a paper cup of tap water to gurgle with while hunched over the toilet for an additional 3$.
“WHERE’S THE FALL WEATHER?” SPECIAL!
One melted bowl of pumpkin spice ice cream. Comes with a sweating glass of soda, no ice. This dish is meant to be enjoyed while sitting in a puddle of butt sweat while dreaming about the closet full of coats you own. Add an additional electric bill for 500$.
THE WHY IS EVERYTHING FORCING ME TO USE AI SPECIAL!
A plate of slop forcefully shoved down your throat. If you want to order this special, instead of ordering for yourself, prompt a robot twelve times to do it and watch as they still get it wrong. Add a glass of drinking water for… oh wait, we’re all out!
ORDER’S UP: SOBRIETY
Following my recent bipolar diagnosis, I’ve started a classic combo: lamictal (a mood stabilizer), abilify (an anti-psychotic, I’M CRAZY!), propranolol (a beta blocker), and trazodone (technically an anti-depressant but frequently used to treat insomnia). You’re really not supposed to drink on any of these meds. Or my anti-anxiety meds (Buspar gang, rise up). Like really, really not supposed to, though, plenty of people do and seem fine.
Last year, I experimented with sobriety and being “sober curious” without knowing I had bipolar. Now I’m realizing that I subconsciously knew I needed this experiment. Alcohol was triggering hypomania and depressive episodes. I always wondered why I had a harder time controlling myself from saying I would have just ONE drink to then having three at a work happy hour or feeling completely worthless after having two glasses of wine. I thought maybe I had a problem with alcohol, but after practicing sobriety, it didn’t feel like alcohol was the issue. Unfortunately, it turned out to be a little more complicated than that.
I felt like I had finally come to a good place in my relationship with alcohol, being able to drink without binging, but then I started the wrong meds. Anti-depressants without a mood stabilizer or anti-psychotic for people with bipolar disorder are typically a big no-no. It can exacerbate a whole bunch of bad stuff, including terrible impulse control. I felt myself slipping back into old habits, like drinking too much in inappropriate settings and spending too much money on drinks (my bipolar diagnosis and meds make me spend too much money on anything, though, just ask my roommates about my package problem). Then, once I started my
anti-psychotics and mood stabilizers, I started to feel WEIRD when I was drinking. Not only did I feel irritable and anxious in a way I never had before, but I also got REALLY sleepy. I missed part of my friend’s wedding reception, because after 10 pm, I just completely fell asleep (not to be confused with passing or blacking out, trust I’ve done that too, and this was different). After that, I realized I had to sit down with myself and come to terms with the fact that I probably just shouldn’t drink.
But it isn’t that simple when the problem isn’t necessarily alcoholism, but instead your mental illness. It’s like I’m being forced against my will to be sober. So many people in my life understand and support me in whatever I decide when it comes to drinking, but they’re also disappointed that I won’t get to drink anymore. I, too, am disappointed that I won’t get to drink anymore. It’s hard to tell people that you’re sober, especially when you didn’t necessarily have a “problem.” No one wants to respect your boundaries when it comes to sobriety after years of always being up for a glass of wine or a martini; I constantly hear, “Come on, one drink won’t hurt!!!” (Yes, in fact it will!!). There’s also a lot of judgment that comes when you’re around people who drink, as someone who doesn’t. People automatically see you as a party pooper or someone who can’t “handle” alcohol like they can.
I’m still coming to terms with what this all means for me. Obviously, lots of people with bipolar and who are on the meds I’m on, drink. And some of them are fine. I just don’t know if I can be one of them, and I’m trying to remember that it’s okay.
by Rachel Williams
Email to Angela
Subject: La LA la la thoughts of my day !
Kelly DeMeo <[REDACTED]@gmail.com>
September 23rd, 2025, 11:52 AM to Angela
Hi Love, good morning.
Subway thoughts of the day - I feel a lot of my angst is rooted in being a really plot-oriented person. I’m really not goal-oriented at all, like I don’t feel validated by my achievements but by the quality of my stories.
It’s helping me understand a lot of tension I’m feeling as I am forward-thinking to the “moving in with boyfriend” phase. In a way, it feels like the plot is over. What happens when the messy, chaotic, unlovable girl is years into stable love? What happens after she grows out of all her toxic friends? When she maximizes all the important relationships. What happens when she leaves behind a chaotic human-oriented job in the Emergency Department to prioritize routine and peace... and achieves that?
Like it seems BORING?!
I don’t feel exposed to many examples of plot that feel meaningful or transformative after marriage or routine is established. Or worse… There are all these stories of women being crushed by the patriarchy, capitalism, or the process of aging. Generally, the climax is them leaving behind the mold by destroying her life to pursue….more plot? Some unknown, exciting freeing state of being?
Like, I don’t want to be defined by those things.
I’m trying the hobby thing… sort of .. but nothing makes me sparkle like the drama of a good plot point.
What is the future? Like what happens after you do the half-marathon, do the hike in the woods, do the summer in Europe? Literally, what is happily ever after? How do I maintain all these castles I’ve built while also pursuing the roller coaster of a great story?
I don’t know - this isn’t a fully formed idea. Just what’s on my mind on the 5 train today.
Also, you know the zine that Hadley and Rachel have submitted to? The theme of this cycle is “diner”, like cozy late-night, looselipped, long, delusional existential convos. AKA my favorite type of communication, especially with you. Wish we could dissect these ideas over an egg combo special.
Love you, miss you, talk soon
Kelly
GAZE UPON MY FALL SOCIAL MEDIA, AND DESPAIR!
by Danny Diaz
riends, Followers, ExesGather round! Lay your adulation at my feet, for as the autumnal season commences, I bless your feed with an unforeseen declaration that I just know your feeble senses have not yet borne witness. It is sure to stoke controversy, so be warned: I think Autumn is my favorite season. This is now going to be all of your problems!
I know, I know, Autumn? What an unpopular choice! How profoundly rare it is for anyone to find joyous warmth in the orange, brown, and red hues that foretell the onset of winter. Lower your apprehension, onlooker! I have chosen to grace you and your politically active Labubu-obsessed story with the knowledge that someone humble,
smart, and inspired out there (yes, me) is going to be brave enough to define their personality around this season!
Go on, feast your eyes on my gallery of poorly lit photos taken with gloves on. Notice the maturity in my selection of the forehead picture rather than the effort of a smile. Weep as you reconcile the novel beauty of a flannel upon ripped grey jeans shot in .5x, with my unopened copy of Little Women tastefully framed to the side. I can already hear your praise:
“How brazen is he to suggest that the sweater is the best fit when the temperatures fluctuate around the low 70s and high 60s?”
“How would I have ever known that
indie-folk music sounds best in moody overcasts and wet foliage were it not for that story post of the retention pond behind his house tuned to the only Paper Kites song he knows?”
“Is that a woman’s cardigan?”
All reasonable responses in the face of such avant-garde presentation. Isn’t your day just immeasurably changed? Isn’t your life supremely improved thanks to my online contribution?
Still hesitant are you to recognize such a profoundly novel position? I too was once one of the masses, foolishly complying with popular referenda that hot coffee is best sipped in the flurries of winter. You don’t get to where I am without being a little controversial, I tell you, and I hate convention. I am the one asking the bold questions no one dares: what if we added a dollop of pumpkin and cinnamon with 10 pumps of Vanilla syrup to that? That much? Kind of a steep upcharge IMO but I guess that’s fine. Yeah, I want the receipt.
Follow me as I singlehandedly chart out this bold new movement ripe for innovation. I have plenty of other ideas cooking in the oven too: Vince Guaraldi but only the popular cuts, a holiday for being thankful just 24 hours before a massive corporate sales event, even yearning! The possibilities are endless when you realize that the mainstream is tired and stale. Be different. Put a flannel on, grab a beanie, bust out that Neighbourhood album, take film photos you’ll never develop! But whatever you do, remember: Like, Comment, and Subscribe!
PUZZLES & GAMES DEPT.
THEDINERPGG
A. Glass keeps me honest; lights keep me warm. I parade the guilty, the sweet, and the slice you saved for later. What am I?
Sandwich Search
Aioli
C. I never bite yet show where mouths once landed; sometimes I wear a ring and sometimes a smear. What am I?
B. I’m loud when empty, I’m full of secrets when stuffed — I live between plates and shoulders and hold hands’ remorse. What am I? Pickles
D. I’m a crunchy negotiator, placed inside for texture or anger; I’m at home in sandwiches and at war with sogginess. What am I?
DOTS AND BOXES
KIDS MENU
cheese burger
macaroni and cheese
chicken tenders
grilled cheese
silver dollar pancakes
french toast sticks
Riddle Answers: A. Pie Display Case B. Waitress Pad C. Coffee Ring/Stain D. Onion Rings
by Kiley Parrish
If you don’t know Olivia Dean, allow me to introduce you to one of the most elegant voices of our generation. Her new album, The Art of Loving, feels like a mirror for the lover girls (hi, me) - the ones who crave connection but pretend they’re fine on their own, who fall hard but recover gracefully, who still believe love can be good if we just do it right.
To me, this album is about intimacy, femininity, independence, and the quiet, steady work of caring. It’s not loud or desperate - it’s confident in its softness. Here’s a roundup of the songs I’ve been stuck on and why they hit so hard.
The Art of Loving (Intro)
Forty-one seconds of vulnerability training. Olivia basically walks in and says, “I’ve learned a lot, but I’m still learning.” Perfect prologue for the lover girl in progress.
Nice to Each Other
This song reminds me why modern dating is exhausting, aka, why we’ve collectively decided to act like we don’t care. Why is “casual” the default? Olivia’s plea: bring back kindness, emotional availability, and saying “I like you” without giving everyone a heart attack.
Lady Lady
The line, “That lady, lady, she’s the man,” hits for so many reasons. This is a love letter to womanhood, to growing into yourself, nodding at your past self, and knowing you’re still becoming.
Close Up
This one hurts in the “I know he cares, but he’s emotionally constipated” kind of way. It’s almost intimacy made audible, wanting someone fully while they stubbornly avoid connection.
So Easy (To Fall In Love)
Flirty, fun, and slightly delusional. The line, “I’m the perfect mix of Saturday night and the rest of your life,” is something I’ve been trying to tell my crushes without telling them.
Man I Need
TikTok might have found it first, but this is graceful yearning at its finest. Feminine, assertive, emotionally expensive, knowing your worth but still wanting to be chosen.
Something Inbetween
The gray area track. Not love, not nothing. That limbo space where you’re holding on and still curious. The soundtrack to all the conversations that went nowhere but left a mark.
A Couple Minutes
Wistful, cinematic, and nostalgic. About fleeting connections that still matter, the brief sparks that linger. When you see an old “almost,” it pulls you back to that time, the person you were, the moments that felt infinite, even if only for a few minutes.
THE ART OF LIVING BY
OLIVIA DEAN
SIDE A
1. THE ART OF LOVING (INTRO)
2. NICE TO EACH OTHER
3. LADY LADY
4. CLOSE UP
5. SO EASY (TO FALL IN LOVE)
6. LET ALONE THE ONE YOU LOVE SIDE B
7. MAN I NEED 8. SOMETHING INBETWEEN 9. LOUD
10. BABY STEPS II. A COUPLE MINUTES
12. I’VE SEEN IT
These tracks don’t just showcase Olivia Dean’s voice; they capture what it feels like to fall, to hope, and to keep believing in love without losing yourself. Lover girls, this album is for you.
THE POST GRAD GAZETTE NEW YORK, NY
24/7 JERSEY DINERS
by Rachel Loring
“T he Jersey diners aren’t all 24/7 anymore.”
I’m driving from the Jersey Shore at 8 pm, two weeks before the end of summer, when my boyfriend, Paul, points this out to me. He said that before COVID, every diner in New Jersey was open 24/7, and now that’s becoming less and less common.
Paul is a quintessential Jersey Boy.
I’m deeply in love with him.
It was one of the first things that intrigued and endeared him to me, how stereotypically “northern” he was to me, someone who grew up in the south. I love listening to him talk and picking up on his subtle accent; how when he says “very” it sounds more like “vary”. I love how blunt he is, never sugar coating, never lying, never saving face. I love how he can be hotheaded, how he yells at taxis (and cyclists) that cut us off on the street and heckles Mets fans at Yankees games. He’s someone who isn’t phased by what I thought was my own craziness, my own emotionality. Turns out being raised as a New Jersey Italian gave him a high tolerance for chaos.
I think about all of this as we drive through Jersey Shore, which was, for a long time, the only reference for New Jersey I had growing up in Florida (that and Fred Armisen’s impression of former New York governor David Paterson on SNL). It’s dark out as we pass through the Shore,
heading to the train station we are being dropped off at. The streets we drive by are quiet, closing slowly for the end of the season, squeezing the last tourist and summering city-dweller into vinyl booths and outdoor patios. The bay waters are steady when we cross them. Paul points out different areas to me as we drive deeper into Jersey, the parts his mom used to visit, where there was an old McDonald’s, and where the worst sushi restaurant he’d ever been to was.
I should be reminded of home, having grown up by beaches and water and small towns, but it feels foreign: beaches without palm trees, needing a sweatshirt outside on a night in August, taking a train home from the beach, swapping flip-flops for sneakers.
Since I was a child, I knew two things: one, I would move up north when I got older, and two, the second I did, I would never go back to Florida.
And yet, as we drove through the darkness, our car the only sign of life on the road, our bodies tired from a day in the sun, I felt a pang of bittersweetness that could only be described as homesickness.
Something was off-centering about being in a familiar situation and it feeling completely alien. As a child, I played this game when my dad used to drive my brother and me home from baseball games. After I got tired of singing along to Jessie’s Girl or watching the light bounce from green to yellow to red on my brother’s side
profile, I’d close my eyes and try to accurately place where the car was. I’d only open them when I was sure we were home. Sightless, I’d try to guess which turn we were at, how many lights we’d flickered by, which slight swivel was the winding road before our cul-de-sac, and how many seconds until I’d feel the bump of the driveway, game won.
Driving home from the Shore with Paul felt like that. Like I was that little girl, but this time, closing my eyes and thinking I was turning onto our street, inches from home, only to open them and realize we were still on the highway. How it felt to be surprised, then disappointed, that my homing instinct was so far off.
Most of the first half of my twenties has been about adjusting. I am constantly checking the temperature of the ocean that is my life, putting in a toe at a time, waiting for my body to acclimate. I adjusted after college, readjusted at my first job, re-re adjusted when I moved back home for a year, and then did the ultimate readjustment to life in New York. And still here I feel more transitory than ever. I’m always waiting for someone to find a way to kick me out, drag me off the island, and send my transplanted ass back down south. Even after a year and some change, I still feel my newness like an embarrassing, cumbersome suitcase I wheel behind me on subway platforms and endless gridded streets.
And now, without fully realizing it, by falling in love, by intertwining my life with another, I had created a new home, a new life, a new future with its epicenter sixteen hours and nine hundred miles away from anything I had grown up knowing. At some point, completely unaware of it, I had stopped adjusting. I had become settled for the first time in a long time. I was in it, fully and completely, and I had somehow just noticed that.
Paul and I began dating in November of last year. At the time, I was not planning nor necessarily looking for anything long-term; I was barely able to even think long-term. I was new in the city, six months in, just looking to practice dating. To kick off what I believed would be months and months of searching.
But Paul ruined that plan on our second date. The night before, I had mentioned to him that I was out of pens, making it impossible to annotate the book I was reading. After our Bryant Park ice-skating date and three beers at a nearby Irish pub, Paul pulled a brand new Bic five-colored pen from his jacket pocket. He had bought it before our date, just because he thought I would like it. It was at that moment, clutching my new pen against my chest, soaking wet in the unexpected winter rain, freshly firstkissed, when I thought maybe my search would be over a lot sooner than I thought.
The more I love him, the more I integrate myself into his life and him into mine, I realize for the first time in my life how permanent romantic love can be. From our first date, I never worried. I never worried that I wouldn’t see him again, that he’d change his mind, that he didn’t mean the things he told me, that he secretly didn’t like me. And for someone whose dating life until that point had been characterized mostly by anxiety and self-doubt, it was a palpable change. One that let me just love him, and let him know and love the real version of me, not the glossy act of a desperate woman trying not to mess up.
If my life had been an ocean, always changing and drifting with the currents, constantly being checked for temperature, then Paul was the shoreline, steady, drawing me back, both waiting and calling, giving and taking.
The more I realize that love can be permanent, the more I realize how very serious it is. It’s no longer the flimsy stuff of a hopeless seventeenyear-old. It’s no longer just that thing you hope and wish and dream for. It’s not something to be stupid over anymore. It’s real life, and it has very real implications for both of us.
I come from a long line of people who transported their lives around love. My grandpa was in the Navy so my grandma moved all over, but ended up landing in Virginia. She spent the rest of her life away from her home and family in Texas. My mom also married a Navy man. Despite loving Virginia fiercely, she too had to leave her home for her life with my dad. She always told me that the day she left Virginia, she thought they’d find their way back up and return to her home state. She’s been in Florida ever since.
still dreamt about a life where my hypothetical kids would go to school with my brother’s hypothetical kids. Where I could live next door to my mom and come over for dinner like in Everybody Loves Raymond (which, for some reason, I watched a lot of as a kid). I dreamt about a life where I was close, where goodbyes only had to cover a couple of days at most.
My mom used to tell me that living so far away from home was one of the saddest things she’s ever done. In fact, on her first night in Florida, there was a horrible summer storm, and she’d spent all night staring in fear at her new swampy backyard, rocking my brother and sobbing. When she’d call my grandma on Sunday nights, it would break her heart to hear the rest of her family in the background preparing for dinner. The interconnectedness of their routines.
My childhood was the result of that distance. I saw my grandma, cousins, and aunts two to three times a year. I was confused when I discovered my friends in elementary school had cousins who went to the same school as us. Cousins weren’t a daily thing, they were a holiday perk, a summer and Christmas bonus, not people you carpooled with on Tuesdays and Thursdays.
So despite always wanting to move north, knowing since I was single-digits that I didn’t want to live in Florida forever, for a long time, I
It used to break my heart similarly as a child, knowing that my aunts couldn’t pick me up from school or attend every one of my extracurricular activities. And it breaks my heart in a similar way now whenever I FaceTime my mom and she’s with my brother, or going to run an errand without me in the passenger seat, or when I can count the months on two hands since I’ve hugged her. It’s the realization that I can’t ever go home again, not really.
And yet.
My mom never thought it wasn’t worth it. She got to live a life she never knew was even an option. Her favorite secret perk: living away from home meant she never had to run into an ex-boyfriend at the supermarket. And that, I can agree, does rock. When I think of my childhood, I think of
how close my family unit was. On our own little Floridian island, we clung to each other like a shipwrecked crew. We made our own routines, our own traditions, and our own perspectives. And the moments we went to Virginia, the summers and Christmases and occasional Easters, were some of the happiest moments of my life. They were always looked forward to, never taken for granted, and filled with the joy of novelty.
I’ve wanted to move to New York since I was fourteen years old. As much as it feels odd to know that there’s a future version of me that’s spent more time away than home, that’s forgotten what Florida beaches look like, it fills me with even more joy that there’s some younger version of me, too, dreaming up her life in the city, beyond thrilled that I call it home.
And like my mom, like the women before her, I get the immense privilege of living a life without any scaffolding in sight. Well, metaphorical scaffolding at least. I get to be another one of the daughters who left, a club that two of my favorite women are members of. I get to live and discover
a life that is all mine, a life I worked so hard to get.
And similarly, I get to have and cherish a love that is all mine, too. It’s a love I found all by myself, a love I get to experience without any outside interference, without any relics of the past clinging on.
That night on the Shore, I texted my mom. Large blue bubbles of text, explaining the homesickness, the strangeness of it all:
Me: It’s crazy these moments, it hits me where it’s like I’m having a life somewhere else. And that’s cool but also sad, living away from family
Mom: I did it too, at times it made me sad
Me: Yes it is sad
Mom: But it’s a good life.
Yes, I think, as I sit next to Paul, finally going back to the city after a long weekend. Yes, I think, as the train pulls into Penn and he grabs my bag and slings it onto his shoulder, carrying it for me. Yes, I think as we walk through familiar streets together, not quiet, not dark, but peaceful nonetheless. Yes, I think, as the homesickness dissolves, replaced with the comfort of the city. Yes, I think, it’s okay that I have a new home. Yes, I think, as I feel my propagated roots from the last twenty-six roots stretch deep into the Northern soil. Yes, I think, as I look at Paul and love him.
It’s a good life.
RECEIPT PAPER CONFESSIONS
by Kiley Parrish
The bar’s closed, but the diner’s open. It always is.
The waitress refills my coffee without asking, the kind of kindness that makes you want to cry a little. There’s a couple softly arguing in the corner, a guy at the counter who looks exhausted from the day, and then there’s me.
I don’t have my journal, and my phone is dead, so I flip over my receipt. The back is blank, like it’s daring me to say something true. I start writing without thinking, the kind of things you only admit when it’s late and you’re too tired to be clever.
The pen starts to run out halfway through, so I take it as a sign. The waitress asks if I want a refill, and I do, but I say no. I sit there for a minute longer, watching my reflection in the window - tired, calm, and okay.
I fold the receipt and tuck it in my wallet. I’ll probably find it in a few months, creased and unreadable. Maybe I’ll laugh. Maybe I’ll remember exactly how it felt to be this version of me.
The receipt printer hums again somewhere behind the counter, spitting out another small record of something fleeting. Another order, another confession, another night that mattered in ways no one will ever know.
I FALL IN LOVE WITH PEOPLE’S POTENTIAL AND THEN ACT SHOCKED WHEN THEY DON’T LIVE UP TO IT.
I BELIEVE IN KARMA, BUT ONLY WHEN IT BENEFITS ME.
I THINK ABOUT ALL THE “WHAT IFS” MORE THAN THE “WHAT IS.”
I SAY I DON’T CARE A LOT. I’M LYING ALMOST EVERY TIME.
I REHEARSE CONVERSATIONS THAT NEVER HAPPEN LIKE I’M
UP FOR AN EMMY.
I THINK HEALING WOULD BE EASIER IF IT CAME WITH A SYLLABUS.
KILEY P
DATE: 10/5/25
TIME: 2:28 AM
THANK YOU FOR DINING WITH US!
THE NIGHTS THAT SHAPE US
by Line Coviello
One of my favorite things to do is to lie in bed on a Sunday morning. Snuggle, snooze, scroll on the phone - having nowhere to be or nothing specific to do. But only when I’m at peace will I have these mornings where I can properly enjoy my bed, the fresh bedsheets, and the comfort of the blanket hugging my skin. They are even better in the dark winter mornings, where the night and the tranquility it brings seem to last a little longer than usual.
But the night doesn’t always bring tranquility and comfort. Throughout my life, I have experienced heartbreak, love, butterflies, nervousness, loss of loved ones, moving, and other events and emotions that most people experience at some point.
All these emotions and experiences can play and mess with your mind –and your sleep. I think the body and mind communicate a lot through sleep and sleeping patterns. I’m not an expert nor have I excessively researched this
field; these are just my thoughts, my experiences, and my findings.
The Sleepless Nights
I rarely have sleepless nights anymore, but when I do, I know it’s because something is really troubling my mind. I am worried, anxious, stressed, and I can’t find peace within. I have found that I don’t sleep when big life decisions or events are happening, and I have questions that I am too afraid to ask. Sometimes, because I’m afraid of the answer. I am afraid to be let down, get my heart broken, be left alone, and have to gather all the pieces of myself back in order. I can’t settle myself, typically because a confrontation with other people are involved, and my emotions are too much.
However, I have learned that I must settle myself; I must go through the discomfort. I will not find peace until I ask the questions that are troubling me, and I have learned that certainty is better than not knowing. Not knowing
will have me thinking for endless hours and keep me up for days until I look like a zombie from The Walking Dead.
I have learned that I will survive, I will stand, and I can always gather myself again. Sometimes it will hurt, and I will be let down, but I will figure out what to do because I have answers, and I will find sleep again – I will recharge. I have also learned that sometimes it is all in my head, and those troubling, nerve-wracking thoughts, questions, and emotions are just that – they are just in my head, and the answers I get will bring me peace and happiness. So, these kinds of sleepless nights aren’t worth it. Ask the questions and take it from the answers you get.
The Late Nights
The late nights are the nights when I’m not able to fall asleep. I will eventually fall asleep, and I will typically get a decent amount of sleep, but I will have trouble falling asleep. These nights typically come when I’m either excited or nervous. Two emotions that are very close to each other in the way my mind and body feel.
I often have these nights before big projects, exams, presentations, or exciting events. I think we all felt it as kids before our birthday or Christmas, the excitement about what the next morning or day will bring keeping us awake longer than we’d like. These nights are more common than the sleepless nights, and I haven’t found a way to get around them. I don’t need to. I have accepted them, and I have learned not to stress about it. I’m not troubled, and my mind isn’t overworking, and the tiredness will win the battle over the excitement or nervousness. I must trust myself and the fact that these are basic emotions, and rely on my mind and body to fall asleep at some point. I have accepted
these nights.
The Interrupted Nights
These nights are different from the late nights in the way that I have no struggle falling asleep. My struggle is to stay asleep. I don’t accept these nights in the same way as the late nights, but I have realized that they’ll probably come and go throughout my life.
These nights are the result of my mind working hard on a subconscious level. I had them a lot when I started therapy. My therapist told me they are a part of therapy hangovers. It’s when your mind is working overtime and processing events and emotions, even after you think you’re done processing them. I have found it to be very fitting. When I am going through a lot of emotions and processing, I will have no trouble falling asleep, because I am exhausted from all the thinking. But then, I keep waking up during the night, and I have trouble falling back to sleep. Most often, I will just lie awake and feel like I’m not thinking about anything specific. But apparently my mind and subconscious are working overtime and can’t fully turn off. These nights are frustrating; I keep looking at the clock, and time seems to go by in slow motion. I don’t like these nights, and I don’t particularly accept them. But I have learned to accept that my mind is working through something, and I need to allow myself time and space for that, because it will pass as I keep working through it, and I will get to my favorite kind of nights.
The Peaceful Nights
These nights are my favorites. These are the nights where I can properly recharge my batteries, enjoy the softness of my pillow, and the touch of my blanket on my skin. I don’t feel smothered, bothered, stressed, or anything out of order. I just sleep. I recharge. I just get to be. My mind is calm; I am at peace. This doesn’t mean that I don’t have troubling things going on in life, but it means that I am working with whatever I have going on, and I am working with myself and my mind. I am accepting and kind to whatever I am going through or not going through. I allow for things not to be perfect, I allow for change, for emotions, and for life to happen. Because life is happening, and I won’t make myself a victim of life. I will grab it, experience it, and take it for what it is. Life will be what you make it out to be, and life is too short for the other three types of nights to take over.
I allow for things not to be perfect, I allow for change, for emotions, and for life to happen. Because life is happening, and I won’t make myself a victim of life.
These four types of nights are a part of my life. They are all a part of it in their own ways, and my unsolicited advice is to make room for all of them. Accept that your mind and body are working and communicating, but rely on yourself to always be able to sleep at some point.
Everything is temporary, so don’t be too bothered by the sleepless nights when they come around and enjoy the peaceful nights when you have them. I think that is why Sunday mornings in bed are one of my favorite things. I appreciate them for what they are and for what they aren’t. I love that they bring out that special peace and tranquility only nights can provide.
Iknow I’m usually the movie list guy here, but for the diner issue, I had to take a different direction. Don’t worry, movies and even TV shows will still be discussed here.
As a proud North New Jersey native, diners were a cornerstone of life. For my first 18 years, I don’t think I went a month without at least one trip to one of the several long-standing diners that surrounded my hometown. Some of the notable diner trips I recall are: when my grandparents took me and my sister to the diner they went to in high school, with my dad after our freshman football team completed our undefeated season, with my best friend after he got his license and we wanted a place drive to, all the times my friends and I got kicked out for being too loud, after my first day of having a minimumwage job, the day my grandmother passed away, when I snuck out of the house at 3 am, and the last
meal I had the night before I left for college. No correlation between events; it was just always the right place to go.
But why is that? I don’t think it’s just because of the large menus that satisfy every craving, or the casual atmosphere, the 24/7 (preCOVID) availability, or even the cheap prices (pre-COVID). I think diners have this powerful way of disarming us. You don’t go to the diner to spend a lot of time; you’re usually just trying to satisfy some hunger and keep your day going. Like the meal you have during a pool day with friends. The food really isn’t important, but more so how it reflects the events of the day. The term “Diner” itself came from the fact that many early diners were housed in converted dining railroad cars. Even their origins are baked in this kind of transient link between destinations. The diner is getting you to where you had to be that day, and it always satisfies its
Twin Peaks and Blue Velvet. These films turned a microscope on the evils hidden in America. I believe
Lynch leveraged the fact that most of us subconsciously think of the diner as a safe place, which allowed the perfect opportunity for a location to analyze the underbelly of our society. He challenged the manufactured suburban feeling of serenity that we project onto the
Another film that notably leverages the invisible power of the diner is
Paris, Texas. At the beginning of the film, our protagonist Travis (played by the remarkable Harry Dean Stanton) returns to small-town America after disappearing for four years. He reappears dirtied, mute, and with no memory. The first time in the movie where we see Travis have a hint of human emotion and identity is, you guessed it, in a diner. He sits with his brother, and even though he doesn’t speak a word, the tears begin to roll as he remembers his estranged son and
wife. The film goes on from here, beautifully navigating audiences through complicated family relationships and culminates in the (spoiler alert) final confrontation where Travis finally talks to his estranged wife, Jane. The scene takes place with both of them on either side of a one-way mirror, Travis in an empty room with only a chair, Jane in, you can see where this is going, a coffee shop/diner decorated space. What follows is the greatest dialogue exchange in any work of art ever created, along with the greatest shot in cinema history, which perfectly captures the metaphysical connection between two people in love with all of its beauty and all of its pain. And it accomplishes all of this in the reflection of a diner window.
It’s no surprise that a place that serves food really gets this North Jersey Italian into a philosophical/ psychological analysis of human
emotions and identity. Diners are the communal American dining room. They’re going to cap off the best days and get you through the worst ones. It’s the public eating equivalent of dining in your own home. When I saw The Rolling Stones at MetLife, Mick Jagger even made a point to bring up diners and disco fries to the crowd. And of course, the most Jersey Italian art to ever exist, The Sopranos, has its final scene in the series finale play out in Holsten’s Diner in Bloomfield. Tony sits with his family in a booth, scanning through the tabletop jukebox’s selection of songs. He sifts through the options, I believe this was a personification of him flipping through every path his life could have taken and all the choices he had and the roads he turned away from. He eventually selects a song, ultimately the last decision he ever makes in his life. The diner, the final resting place of the American Dream.
Sides & Desserts
Hi! It’s me, an extremely long diner menu! So excited to put myself out here, finally! You might be asking, what could me, an extremely long diner menu, be doing on a dating website? Looking for my soulmate of course…or should I say soulplate? Haha… get it?
First things first, I’m a cuddler! My partners in the past have said I feel both extremely greasy and sticky at the same time, so you’ll have a really fun time figuring all that out!
I’m a bit of a homebody, I usually like to stay on the table, occasionally hanging with one of my besties, a disgruntled waitress who smokes 5 packs a day, and an emptyyet-crusty ketchup bottle. But don’t get me wrong, I’m a total night owl!
That being said…I think I have to address this. DON’T hit me up if you’re just looking for a booty call. I need a partner who’s there for me 24/7, not just late nights. But, if you do wanna sleep over, I’ll make the most burnt, average coffee in the heaviest mug you’ve ever held!
I’m looking for someone who’s willing to know me, the real me. Most people stop on page two or three, but I’ve got so many more parts to me. No one even gives a glance at my extensive pasta menus on page 17. Yes, the sauce is watery and has been sitting in the back for like at least seven years, but it’s still a part of me! If you can’t handle me at my page 27 shawarma plate with undisclosed meat, then you don’t deserve me at my full breakfast special.
I can’t wait to find love. I’ve got a bit of everything in me, I’m there when you need me, I’m dependable, and baby, I always serve. If you wanna see me, I’ll be at any local diner, sitting on the table wearing two smears of grape jelly. See you there!
by Rachel Loring