I like talking with people who have changed religions. Here is one of them.  Kima Jones is a poet and a book publicist in LA that I met through Roxane Gay at a reading about a year ago. She always wears the most incredible lipstick, and her writing gives me the shivers. I knew she'd become a Muslim as a young woman, and I'd also been giving a lot of thought to the process of religious…

Previously in this series.

As a child, you found yourself in a near constant state of existential threat, often caused by your parents' party guests or abnormal creatures you met on bicycle rides.

One day, when you are sitting down to tea, you are surprised to read in the paper that a once-thought-to-be-dead great aunt has caused a scandal in the capital city of a small European country you

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I. I sat outside a Subway so Clint could interview me, which meant scope out what I looked like. He wore an Astros baseball cap and smoked a cigarette while he asked me about my work history, which was mostly margaritas at the Mexican place. He had fat lips and bug eyes and his breath smelled like Funyons, but I smiled anyway like he had half a chance. He was from Austin, which everyone knew…

Don't ask when I'm going to post the "Spaghetti with Bumblebees" sketch, because I never will.

Miss Major on the Stonewall movie: The best thing I can remember about that night is that when the girls decided, “no, we ain’t doing this,” some of the girls got out of the paddy wagon and came back, the police got so scared they backed into the club and locked the doors! I mean, if nothing else, that was the funniest thing to have in your mind watching it happen. And meanwhile across the…

This week brought us the "If so-and-so were your boyfriend" entry The Toast's faithful legion of Harry Potter fans were waiting for. (Well, truthfully, I think you're probably all waiting for If Emma Watson Were Your Girlfriend, but this will do for a start.) ENGORGIO.

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"What have you taught him about the value of his own labor? Nothing": Ayn Rand's If You Give a Mouse a Cookie

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Mmmmmm. A towering stack of Buttered goodness to ease you into the weekend. You’ll laugh, you’ll cry, you’ll shake your head in wonder as you dig in to the deliciousness. We recommend the EVERYTHING:

“What people remembered her for were the pubic hair portraits.” Death, family, feminism, something like art.

Mensah on changing jobs, Dre’s latest, Meek vs Drake, and La Femme, a wild French band.

Infectious flash: “Still, maybe you should

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Please don't feel bad about yourself if you only listened to about five minutes of the Iliad live-read. It's a lot, you know? Just re-watch "Checkin' In" instead. You're still a good person.

You can tell he has the virus the day he puts his hands on your face when he kisses you, warm fingertips canting your head a few degrees bit off north, which feels sweet, not terrible at all, but is not something he’s done in twenty years of kissing you. He’s picked this up from someone else, someone infected. Later, the realization that you will both die, and soon, but first: Did the other woman…

Toasties! For The Bartender eating homemade pelmeni with sour cream and butter is guaranteed to bring on thoughts of kindness and goodwill toward fellow everyone.

Previously in this series: If Daniel Radcliffe were your boyfriend.

If Forest Whitaker were your boyfriend he would order your latte using the dumb Starbucks lingo even though you know he would much rather have gone to the tiny independent coffee shop ten minutes out of the way rather than embarrassing you by arguing with the barista over the word “medium.”

If Forest Whitaker were your boyfriend he would let

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When Sela Lowe invited her children, Aimee, Bobby, Cecelia, and Matty, to the lake at the beginning of September it was clear the invitation was more demand than request. At least, it was clear to Cecelia. The others viewed Sela’s words as law, as compact phosphorescent orbs of fact, the sort of facts told by honest-to-god truth tellers. “Righteous truths,” Matty once said to Cecelia. Whether demand or fact, Kyle kissed his wife outside the…

I am a simple woman, with simple joys. They're writing songs of love, but not for bees A lucky star's above, but not for bees With love to lead the way, I found more skies of grey Than any Russian play could guarantee I was a fool to fall, and get that way, Heigh-ho, alas, and also lack-a-day Although I can't dismiss The memory of her kiss I guess she's not for bees…

Coming to America:

While my father was still around, he and my mother revered all things “African.” Kente cloth covered and protected our bodies like saran wrap. My parents didn’t like Dove, Irish Spring and Lever 2000’s suggestion that soap should be white or light-pastel. Cleanliness was next to godliness and since God was Black, our soap was black too. Glade plugins, Lysol air-fresheners, perfumes, colognes and lotions were

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