For some inexplicable reason, I feel an intense kinship with Bourdain. I suppose Bourdain feels like my own cautionary tale.

Imagine you’re in bed in freshly washed sheets. You could be wrapped up, breathing slowly, content.

When I feel myself spiralling, I try to notice the small things around me, and pay close attention to them; the exact shade of blue in the sky, the feel of the chair beneath me, the motion of the traffic passing by.

I didn’t come here for love, so if I choose to stay here, it has to be for more than love itself.

The spinster is simply an older version of a bachelorette, an unmarried woman past a certain age who should no longer hold out hope for romance

‘Poor’—the word carries a certain weight, a certain grit, a certain grime, a certain image.