Goings-On, It's 3AM; I must be lonely.

I wonder what her equivalent of Twitter harassment was; bricks through the window?*

I was just in Bologna, Italy, where, between eating platters of the best cured pork products Euros can buy and eating more gelato than is probably wise, I visited the Teatro Anatomico, where 17th century medical students and 17th century non-student creepers would gather to observe human dissections. While reading the informational literature, I learned about Laura Bassi. Have you heard of her? Neither had I.

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It's 3AM; I must be lonely., Stuck in My Craw!

#Not All Atlantic Writers (I Hope)

If you’ve been reading about the recent protests* at Yale University and found yourself thinking, “Why are these coddled Ivy League students getting their hyperliberal microaggression panties in a bunch over Halloween costumes?” I commend Connor Friedersdorf’s recent piece in the Atlantic, “The New Intolerance of Student Activism,” to you.

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Goings-On, It's 3AM; I must be lonely.

And the microphone smells like a beer.

Tonight, we saw Billy Joel perform — his 20th sold-out show in a row — at Madison Square Garden. Itzhak fricking Perlman came out to play on several songs, and rocked the shit out of the fiddle bits in “Downeaster Alexa,” and possibly the beautifully plaintive tone he pulls out of his instrument made me tear up a little.

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It's 3AM; I must be lonely., Preach it.

“When it was time to write, and he took his pen in his hand, he never thought of consequences; he thought of style. I wonder why I ever bothered with sex, he thought; there’s nothing in this breathing world so gratifying as an artfully placed semicolon.”

– Hilary Mantel, A Place of Greater Safety

As though I didn’t already love Hilary Mantel.

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Effed-Up Shit, It's 3AM; I must be lonely.

On survival, and enough.

It’s two-thirty in the morning. I’d like to be sleeping. Instead, I’m propped up on a corner of the sofa, bleeding like a stuck pig and trying not to whimper audibly as I wait for this horse-tranquilizing doze of Advil to quell the menstrual cramps that feel like a dozen animated claw hammers trying to escape my uterus from within. I’m tired, and I’m cranky, and it hurts, and this sucks.

But I’m alive.

Connie’s not.

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