One night I sat across the table from a Harry Styles look-a-like, smiling at how his hair gel glistened under our table lamp. As he picked at the bowl of warm pita bread, my eyes were busy outlining his pectoral muscles underneath his button down. Eventually, when Harry Styles failed to call me back after his completely rejected but oddly flattering booty call, I cried. I cried not for his inflated sense of entitlement. I cried because I couldn’t decide which title to choose for my book.
Read More