I stare at the piece of hair. I’ve seen so many pieces of my hair detached from my head over the years. Curly, dyed strands wrapped around stubborn hair elastics and plastic nubbed brush bristles. But now, I gaze at the long, dark wet strand plastered to my tiled shower wall. It feels complete in… Continue reading A Hairy Situation.
Author: thepathtoworthy
The Ick.
I paused before writing this piece. I hesitated for a variety of reasons. It wasn’t some feeling of embarrassment connected to the admission that I watch reality television. It’s not a staple for me, but I certainly haven’t shied away from it, either. Why? Oh, well, likely for the same reasons everyone else watches it.… Continue reading The Ick.
I’d rather fail trying.
Saturday, May 2, 2026, 6:45 a.m. The whole thing was pretty surreal. Correction: it is surreal. It’s still ahead of me. All of it. The day is here and so it feels like one part of it is done. The anticipation part. The preemptive anxiety that comes just before the thing. Thoughts of what I… Continue reading I’d rather fail trying.
Sus and the Korean JGL.
I’m watching them, Sus and Choi- with something that resembles familiarity and also, as an outsider might. This is an active endeavor as knowledge of Sus is built into my DNA. Sus is funny. I know this with certainty, but I’m not sure whether she’s actively trying to amuse our tour guide or if this… Continue reading Sus and the Korean JGL.
Oh, Bob.
Activate your bob- screams advertisements and influencers alike. Image after image of women of all ages and their silky, shiny, chic bobs. Chin length, shoulder length, and even a slick bob- sculpted into something of a sassy helmut with an abundance of product and care. Some shaggy bobs, but not too messy. Just the kind… Continue reading Oh, Bob.
Aunt Sandy.
I wake with a start and realize that the window I shoved open in some perimenopausal spiral is still ajar. Any other April morning this might be acceptable, but a late cold front has hit New York, and I can feel the brutal chill in the air on the extremities that have escaped my quilt.… Continue reading Aunt Sandy.
EHC.
I keep wracking my brain trying to think of something clever to say. I stare at the cursor unforgivingly blinking at the top left corner of my screen and it’s making me increasingly anxious. There is something in me that wants to sound profound. Meaningful. Despair fills corners of my heart, and yet, overwhelmingly, I… Continue reading EHC.
Franz.
There’s a moment where I’m staring at the Zoom icon and then suddenly, his face fills the screen. I take him in in bits and pieces. Round tortoiseshell plastic framed glasses, broad forehead, full lips formed into a semi-frown and sweat dotting his hair line. I instantly wonder if he’s just come from some activity… Continue reading Franz.
Tilda.
I’m studying her profile in a way that would be obvious if she weren’t driving. Maybe it’s obvious anyway, but she’s not the kind to acknowledge, not in that way. Her skin is still perfect. I don’t think they use the expression peaches and cream anymore, but if they did, if I did, this would… Continue reading Tilda.
Tis my season.
I am eating fluffy, bright yellow scrambled eggs littered with small cut pieces of fresh tomato, with sliced banana on the side when the first notification appears. I carefully sip the hot espresso I made before I swipe open the app. It’s 10 a.m. or so here, which means it’s 6 a.m. or so, there.… Continue reading Tis my season.
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