The Wreckage of My Presence: Essays

by Casey Wilson

Maybe it’s my medication, maybe it’s my Taurus moon, or, as I like to

I’m furious. In today’s climate we all should be. Have to be. If you AREN’T angry—amidst a global pandemic, systemic racism, and a disintegrating planet—there’s something wrong with you, boo.

This is followed by a soul-crushing silence while I process how a human who has just heard another human discuss the hellscape of her unhealthy relationship to food and disassociation from herself could not understand that a cup of fucking mint tea ain’t gonna cut it.