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Read An Excerpt From NYLON Book Club Pick ‘Caca Dolce’

Culture
CACA DOLCE BOOK COVER IMAGE COURTESY OF SOFT SKULL NEW YORK

And join the writer for a Facebook Live discussion on September 19

Our September selection is Chelsea Martin’s Caca Dolce: Essays from a Lowbrow Life.

Says NYLON's Kristin Iversen:

"Caca Dolce is a strange, candid, often hilarious look into Martin’s life, dating back to when she was a young child who mistakenly thought she’d had sex with her similarly-aged cousin. (We’ve all been there, right?)...Perfect for anyone who has ever hated, loved, and laughed at themselves—particularly if they’ve done those things all at once—Caca Dolce serves to let all the weird millennials out there know that they’re not aliens at all, they’re actually normal. It’s the world that’s strange."

Below is an excerpt from Caca Dolce. Read the book and join us for an interview and book discussion with Martin on Facebook Live September 19 at 11am EST.


In junior year of high school I became the bassist in a metal parody band called Sparkling Honeypuff. But if you asked my bandmates, Brandon and Charlie, they would probably have told you we were in a serious thrash metal band called Slaughtered Goat (or something), and they would probably have made some mean joke about how I couldn’t play even the simplest bass chords despite their six-plus months of effort to teach me. To this I would have said that it was funnier overall if I didn’t really know how to play bass, more in line with the parody aspect of the band, and also that it was more fun to simply hang out and have a good time than to listen to the same Black Sabbath song over and over, and slide my fingers across rough strings that gave me blisters, trying to imitate the bass line of some song I didn’t even like.

“How can you not like Black Sabbath?” Brandon would say.

“Is that a real question?” I would say, completely mystified. “You honestly like this music?”

These kinds of creative differences ultimately led to the band’s demise, at which point Brandon and Charlie started a new band, also called Slaughtered Goat (or whatever) with a new bassist, a role they didn’t actually fill.


I had known I wasn’t a musician since my second-grade keyboard recital, during which I stopped playing in the middle of the song and yelled to the audience, “I don’t know the rest!” I liked the idea of being part of a group and contributing to something larger than myself, and hanging out with my friends under the guise of being productive, but I didn’t actually want to play music. Especially not metal.

“Can I be the bassist in your new band?” I asked Charlie.

“Um,” said Charlie. “I’ll have to ask Brandon. We might not need a bassist.”

“Brandon is right there. Why don’t you ask him now?”

They let me back into the band after a small degree of persistence and manipulation, but things were never the same. For one, I had to promise never to refer to the band as Sparkling Honeypuff; also, we never had band practice again. Or, at least, I was never invited to band practice again.

“We’re never going to get the gig if we don’t work together on some jams,” I said to Charlie.

“What are you even talking about?” he said.

When I was invited to be the photographer for my friend Logan’s metal band, Broken Femur, I eagerly accepted. I didn’t like the responsibility of being in a band anyway; being a photographer was more my speed. I went to all of their practices and house shows, where I would halfheartedly snap a few action shots with my digital camera and then spend the rest of the night looking for snacks. Later, I would upload the photos onto my computer and never look at them or do anything with them again. It was a pretty sweet gig.

I first saw Sage at a Battle of the Bands concert that Broken Femur was competing in, which took place on my high school football field one Saturday in the summer.

“Who is that?” I said, looking at a pale, skinny dude with black bell-bottoms, no shirt, and shiny brown hair down to his butt.

“Which one? Tony?” Logan said. “Oh, that one? Sage. He’s the drummer in Johnny’s band.”

Maybe a hippie boy version of Alanis Morissette isn’t everyone’s idea of the perfect man, but it was mine. I took a few photographs of him with my camera, then switched to video mode and filmed a five-second clip of him walking across the field.

I didn’t see Sage again until Logan had a New Year’s Eve party six months later in the trailer adjacent to his parents’ house. I recognized Sage immediately, most likely due to how many times I had watched the clip I’d filmed the summer before. He wore the same bell-bottoms low on his waist, and I could see he was not wearing underwear. I ignored him for hours while trying to get as drunk as possible and playing Quarters with Brandon and Charlie.

Quarters is a game with simple rules: You put your knuckles on a table while your opponent launches quarters at your hand from the other side of the table. Every time they break the skin on your knuck- les they get a point. It is probably a good way to contract blood-borne infectious diseases, and an even better way to physically hurt people who have kicked you out of a band you were inexplicably desperate to be in.

Eventually I was drunk enough that I had the confidence to poke Sage with a stray drumstick as he walked past me. He looked at me as if I was a drunken moron and disappeared into some other room.

I had kissed boys before. Plenty of them. I kept a single sheet of lined Hello Kitty paper tracking the names of everyone I’d kissed, and the paper was almost filled to capacity. There were boys I’d kissed while drunk. Boys I’d kissed while playing Truth or Dare when I was eleven. (It counted.) Boys I’d kissed while they were drunk and I was pretending to be drunk. Boys I’d heard from reliable sources that I’d kissed but couldn’t remember kissing because I had been too drunk. I looked at the list periodically to reassure myself that I was someone worth kissing. I wasn’t exactly anxious to add more names to the list, but I knew that if I wrote the next name big enough, the next name after that name would have to go on the other side of the paper, or another piece of paper altogether. At that point I could even begin to refine the taxonomy. But mostly I wanted a boyfriend. It was the mid- dle of my senior year and I had never really had one.

It seemed miraculous that anyone ever accomplished the task of finding someone they were willing to admit they liked who happened to like them back. When I liked someone I tended to stay far away from that person until my desperation became overwhelming, and I would force myself to approach them with no plan of what to say. Then, standing in front of them, I would have to think of some- thing to say on the spot, such as “Can I have a pen? I can’t give it back, though. It’s complicated.”

“I don’t,” the person would say, gesturing to the soccer field that surrounded us, on which our classmates apathetically kicked a ball around.

“Oh, that’s cool,” I would say, smiling and rolling my eyes, trying to convey that I was a chill girl with no pressing need for a pen.

Toward the end of the night, a guy I had seen hanging out with Sage most of the night approached me. He was drunk.

“What’s your name?” he said. “Chelsea,” I said. “What’s yours?”

“I’m Brian. What are you doing after the party?” He was pale, and had long, tangled dark hair like a rag doll. He seemed drugged out, stumbling while attempting to stand in one spot. I didn’t usually appreciate the drugged-out look, but it was a good look on him. He looked like a careless trashy rock star in need of heroin.

“I don’t know.” It was well past midnight, and I wasn’t planning on doing anything else. “I’m supposed to call my mom if I can’t find a ride home.”

“I can give you a ride home. I’m going to my sister Hannah’s house for an after-party but I can give you a ride in a little while.”

“How many people are going?” I said.

“Just me, Hannah and her boyfriend, Dave, that guy over there, Sage, and maybe our buddy Richard.”

I made some quick drunken calculations. If I left with Brian there was a good chance I would not make it home. Unfulfilled drunken promises of rides home were common in my life. I did not know any of these people and I wasn’t sure if any of my friends knew them, there was always the possibility of rape, and my friends might be mad at me for leaving. But Sage was going to be there.

I told Logan I was leaving with Brian and his friends, and Logan gave me a concerned, almost fatherly look. He never drank and so was often forced to be the voice of reason for his alcoholic friends.

Charlie fell or was pushed into the kitchen counter behind Logan, breaking the counter and causing the sink to fall into the cabinet below. People laughed and ooohed as Charlie tried to pick himself up out of the broken sink. Still, Logan seemed more concerned with my safety than with the damage to his property.

“You can stay here if you want, you know,” he said. “It’s okay. They said they’d give me a ride home.”

“What do you like to do for fun, Chelsea?” Brian said.

“I like to paint,” I said, trying to see Sage’s reaction in my periphery. “And, um, photography.” Then, completely forgetting the question, I added, “I go to high school.”

“How old are you?” A joint was being passed around but I declined to participate, as I had decided to “never smoke pot” a few years earlier.

“Seventeen.”

“Sweet,” said Brian. He put a hand on my shoulder and smiled at me. “How old are you?” I said.

“Twenty-one.”

“Your fly is down,” I said to Sage, forgetting to look at him briefly before I said it, as I had planned, so that it wouldn’t be obvious that I had seen that it was down hours earlier and had intentionally de- layed giving him the information so that it could continue to be a conversation-starting option, and so that it seemed that for most of the night I hadn’t bothered to look at his crotch.

He wordlessly zipped it up and smiled at me.

“I’ll need to go home soon,” I said to Brian, knowing already that I was not going to be driven home.

“I can’t drive you home. I’m too drunk,” said Brian. It was 2 a.m. I called my mom and told her in my best attempt at sounding sober that I was spending the night at my new friend Hannah’s house, and gave her the address where she could pick me up in the morning. I was becoming increasingly worried about the sleeping arrangements, and of the intentions and/or tenacity of Brian, who had probably never meant to drive me home. I sat between them on the couch, wishing Logan was there to tell me what to do.

“I’m really tired,” said Sage. “Me too,” I said.

“You can sleep on the couch,” Brian said. “Sage and I will sleep on the floor.”

“No way,” Sage said. “This is my couch. Chelsea can share with me if she wants, though.”

I wish I could say that I usually had more grace and subtlety than my actions at this point suggest, but the truth was I did not surprise myself by leaping onto Sage and beginning to kiss his neck and face. Brian scooted off the couch and onto the floor.

In the morning, Sage had large red hickeys covering his neck. I had never given anyone a hickey before, and I was astonished by how easy it had been. I didn’t even remember doing it. Sage pulled his long hair into a bun, exposing his entire neck, evidently unashamed of the damage I’d done.

“It looks like you were stuck in a cage all night with a rabid monkey,” Hannah said.

Sage laughed. “It was worth it,” he said.

I checked my own neck in the bathroom and noticed one small tender mark, which I covered up with some of Hannah’s makeup so that my mom wouldn’t see it when she picked me up.

At home, I unfolded my sheet of Hello Kitty paper and wrote Sage’s name at the bottom, filling what remained of the page.


On Monday at school, I recounted the details of this most exciting make-out session to friends, who mostly didn’t care.

“Oh, that guy?” Logan said. “That’s weird.”

“I’m in love with Sage,” I said, feigning melodrama by covering my heart with my right hand to conceal the very real melodrama I was feeling.

Sage was possibly the hottest guy I had ever seen in person. I had fantasized about him for six months, thinking I would never see him again, and then I’d kissed him. It was surreal. It felt like a teen movie, the kind where the protagonist loses her virginity at the end and everyone rejoices. I was that protagonist. This was my movie.

I was more eager than ever to participate in band-related events with Logan, as I thought it was my best chance at seeing Sage, who had my phone number but had not yet called. But Logan’s band was taking some kind of hiatus.

“We’re kind of just into writing and practicing right now,” Logan said. “I don’t think we’re going to play any more shows this month.”

“You’re never going to get anywhere with that kind of attitude, you know,” I said.


A few weeks later, I found myself at Hannah’s house again. It turned out Sage was “without a home” and was sleeping on Hannah and Dave’s couch in exchange for groceries purchased by Sage’s mother. Sage had invited me over but had left soon after I arrived, as an awesome opportunity to practice drums with some members of his band had arisen, and that was not the kind of thing one can simply decline, apparently.

I did my best to react neutrally. I wanted to convey how great of a girlfriend I would be, if given the opportunity. I wouldn’t be needy or inflexible. I could hang out with his friends while he casually ditched me.

I watched football with Hannah and Dave for hours and did my best to appear to believe I belonged there, which got easier as the day turned to night as Hannah and Dave made sure there was always a fresh beer in my hand. Brian arrived and appeared happy to see me, and I was happy to see someone who appeared happy to see me. He quoted some lyrics from the Darkness, which seemed ironic to me because I thought he looked like the singer from that band. I sang the rest of the line using my best chipmunk voice.

“I believe in a thing called love / Just listen to the rhythm of my heart.”

“Do you think the Darkness is a real band or a joke band?” Brian said. He had a slight Southern drawl for some reason, which made everything he said seem slightly sexual to me.

“What difference does it make?” I said.

“I just wonder if they take themselves super seriously or if they understand the irony.”

“Definitely both,” I said.

“Definitely?” he said, smiling, revealing his crooked, over-crowded teeth. “You sound pretty confident.”

“I guess I could be wrong,” I said, sitting on the arm of the couch and looking up at him, coming as close to flirtatious body language as I probably ever would.

Late in the night, when everyone was drunk, Sage came back to Hannah’s house with his bandmates and intercepted my conversation with Brian to hug and kiss me. It felt more territorial than passionate, but I was delighted by it.

“She’s a virgin,” Dave said loudly to Sage. I suppose I knew, when they had asked me if I was a virgin earlier, that they would tell Sage. I suppose I wanted them to tell Sage, because I knew it made me special in a place like Clearlake, where nearly every girl lost her virginity by age thirteen, but I did find it a little odd that Dave chose to announce it the second Sage came home.

“Is that true?” Sage said, looking at me earnestly. I declared my virginity to the whole room.

I had not held on to my virginity for any reason. It was incidental. It felt out of my control. And it didn’t mean anything to me. I had simply never had the opportunity to get rid of it.

A few hours later, Sage asked me to be his girlfriend. “Yes,” I said very formally. “I will be that.”

The next time we hung out, a couple of days later, Sage and I had sex. Hannah and Dave had made their bedroom available to us while they watched football in their living room with some friends.

Sage turned on a k.d. lang album and lit some incense. He was making an effort, I guess. I didn’t really understand the appeal of k.d. lang but Sage was older and wiser and I had no experience with sex, so who was I to say what was sexy? I decided to keep an open mind about gross hippie music and stinky burning perfume sticks.

Sex was easy. Eerily easy. I checked several times to make sure that the right thing was happening down there, because I didn’t feel much of anything. Wasn’t it supposed to hurt?

Wasn’t I supposed to be crying and sopping up blood with my own underwear?

Sage reassured me several times that he had a big dick.

“There’s no way for me to know if that’s true or not,” I said. But I sort of believed him, because how else would he have had the confidence to play k.d. lang, which I had determined was not sexy at all, not even a little bit, not even considering all the beers I had drunk at that point?

When we were done (when he was done), I felt extremely accomplished. Before I had even finished getting dressed, I started trying to figure out the right wording to use when I told my friends about my newfound state of womanhood. Basically it was a choice between “I lost my virginity” and “I had sex.” I sort of hated the word “virgin,” with its religious connotations or implications of sacredness, but saying “I had sex” seemed creepier and embarrassing. But that might be because I imagined saying it in a whisper, with the last word only mouthed and not spoken while making a creepy, villainous smile and widening my eyes as much as I could. So maybe if I said it in a normal tone of voice and didn’t do anything weird with my face it wouldn’t come off so creepy.

Sage and I left Hannah’s bedroom and joined Hannah and Brian and the half-dozen people who I had been introduced to earlier but who still were nameless and random to me. I drank more beer and, for the first time, felt almost comfortable hanging out with this group of people, watching, for hours on end, a sport I could not begin to understand.

That night we slept on the couch, and I held on to Sage tightly, letting my hands fall to places they hadn’t when we’d slept together before, places I had never explored on another human body. His butt, for example. He hugged me tightly and we breathed into each other’s faces all night.

“I had sex,” I said to Logan before class started on Monday, whispering the first two words and mouthing the last, my face scrunched up like a deranged and possibly rabid feral child.

“Really?” he said, trying to sound impressed by something that was not at all impressive. “Wow, cool!”

“It was cool,” I said.


I started seeing Sage almost every weekend. My school was less than a block away from Hannah’s house, so I would walk there after school on Friday, usually uninvited, and stay all weekend. Sage and I contin- ued having sex. I didn’t really understand what was so great about sex but I felt extremely excited by it nonetheless. It was strange and cool to be naked in front of another person, and strange and cool to see a naked person up close. In the moment, everything felt serious and straightforward. There was no pretense or humor or subtlety to any of our actions, just the flagrant search for pleasure—his, mostly. Af- terward I felt embarrassed by how serious we had been, tried to make jokes about how weird naked bodies were, and then felt embarrassed about the jokes.

Sex, I would think happily to myself afterward. It was now a word that belonged to me. Everybody else in the world, and me.

Sometimes Sage would invite me to watch him practice with his band in the garage of a middle-aged developmentally disabled man who somehow had a lot of music equipment. Other times I would stay at Hannah’s while Sage went to practice, and I would hang out with Brian.

“How’s your painting going?’ Brian said one day. “What?” I said.

“You said you were a painter.”

“Oh yeah. Good. Some of my paintings are on display in a meeting room for my school district, so that’s pretty cool, I guess.”

“You’ve got a lot of talent,” he said.

“How would you know that? I’ve never shown you anything.”

“I can sense these things, Chelsea,” Brian said. “Oh, hey, do you want to go to my cousin’s wedding?”

“Your cousin’s wedding? Where is it?”

“Clearlake. Hannah and everybody will be there. I can pick you up.”

“Is Sage going?” 

“I think.”


Sage seemed surprised to see me show up to the wedding of his room- mate’s cousin with his roommate’s brother, but he didn’t ask any questions. He hugged me and took my hand, leading me to a pew in the back of the church.

We held hands during the ceremony. He squeezed my hand at what felt like significant moments in the bride and groom’s speeches, and I imagined his inner monologue describing all the great things about me, urging him to realize that I could be this for him, like in The Little Mermaid when Sebastian tries to get Prince Eric to kiss Ariel.

That night, we had sex on Hannah and Dave’s couch after everyone had gone to sleep. Afterward, Sage calmly said, “I think we need to break up. I’m looking for a job right now and I know I’m not giving you the attention you deserve,” and, without waiting for my response, gently fell into sleep.

I was too stunned to say anything, anyway. I stayed up for several hours, trying to figure out the best way to appreciate being wrapped in his arms while believing that I was likely never going to experience such a physical arrangement with anybody ever again.

In the morning, I said goodbye to Sage and waited in the driveway for my mom to pick me up.

At home, after crying for an hour in the shower, I found my scrap of Hello Kitty paper and threw it away. I didn’t need it anymore. It was a relic of my childhood, which was gone now. I was a non-virgin woman who had “been with men,” and who wasn’t obsessed with the number of them she had been with, and who couldn’t be bothered to remember their names.

And anyway, I had already transcribed the information into a Word document on my laptop and backed it up on an external flash drive.

Illustration by Vivie Behrens

Liberation can come from completion, but then, we are always becoming something new

They say the full moon is about completion. About looking back at the intentions you crowned the new moon with and seeing where those intentions led you. The new moon in Gemini was the pebble that began this cycle, and the full moon in Sagittarius is her echo, the ring getting larger in the water. The new moon in Gemini asked us what we wanted to change about our habits, what we wanted to do with our hands, and our hunger for newness. The new moon in Gemini was interested in the way shifting ideas can give us the freedom to think differently and, in thinking differently, become new people. The full moon in Sagittarius reminds us that we are never not becoming new.

Both Gemini and Sagittarius are mutable signs, they exist in relation to the other and they know how to speak each other's language. But, while Gemini relishes the endless capacity of air (of thought), Sagittarius uses the energy of fire to transform thought into action. Everything Sagittarius touches can't help but change. How can this be completion? The wheel is always spinning, reader. Sagittarius marks the completion of the fire trine. Here, fire is generous and social. It means to gather and teach, to illuminate. Sagittarius lives in the sector of the zodiac chart related to education, philosophy, and the awareness of others—their beliefs and their right to freedom. Because of this, our June Sagittarius full moon is both a completion moon and a moon that reminds us that all endings create space for beginning. The more you leave behind, the more you find. There is no dead end in the universe.

If you are a seeker like me (perhaps you have lots of planets in Sagittarius in your natal chart), you have already come across Jessica Dore's Twitter account. Every day, Dore posts a tarot card and her interpretation of it. It is a gift to many of her readers. Yesterday, she shared The World with us, reminding her readers: "the moments of beauty, belonging & elation that you've experienced up to this point in your life… would still only amount to the tiniest sliver of what this world has to offer in terms of sweetness & pleasure."

I thought about this card and her words all day. The World is, numerically, the last card in the Major Arcana journey—the last card if you don't think about the Fool, who is numbered at 0 and so is the beginning and the end. The World is, therefore, a completion card too, a big echo of a full moon.

This morning, holding the sweet and expansive nature of The World, thinking on Sagittarius people and their love of travel, of reckoning with the edge of an atlas and questioning the map-makers, I pulled the nine of swords from my own Tarot deck. The other side of knowledge is to overwhelm and shut down. Gemini, ruled by Mercury, holds information in her hands. She understands duality in all things. Sagittarius, ruled by Jupiter, yearns for the expansion of mind and the illumination of power. The philosopher and the moralist, a Sagittarius at her best can teach anyone to break open a prison. A Sagittarius at her worst can justify any cage. Don't forget that Jupiter was the king of the gods. His lightning bolt was a weapon. Sometimes, we are too exposed to each other. We imagine we know others through the stories we create about one another. We imagine we know the future because we refuse to be humble about how vulnerable we are to the universe's ever-shifting outcomes. We refuse abundance by convincing ourselves that the cage of identity we build for ourselves is our only possibility.

For the next two days, as the Sun lingers in Gemini and we feel the effects of the moon's fullness in Sagittarius, reflect on the ways you have used knowledge. When has your knowledge been a tool of empowerment for yourself and others? When have you shared the beauty of the world and the joy of radical ideas/ways of living? When have you used knowledge to understand and relieve your own suffering and the suffering of others? And, too, when have you used knowledge as permission for self-delusion? When you have expanded so far into your idea of the world and your own work in it that you forgot how to be accountable to your daily life, your body, your friends, and the people you love? You know when Janis Joplin sings "freedom is just another word for nothing left to lose"? That's only one kind of freedom, and it's the kind that Sagittarius thinks it knows very well. Freedom can be about nothing, if nothing is what you want. Then welcome to the monastery, friend. Freedom can also be another word for everything you revel in not knowing. Freedom can be about having everything because you are part of everything, even if you can't see the relation, even if you can't imagine yet how what you want also wants you.

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FROM THE WORLD WIDE WEB
Photo courtesy of HBO.

Kat is making me relive my fat-teen trauma

When people say that HBO's new Zendaya-led teen drama, Euphoria, is triggering, believe them. In the pilot alone we're introduced to Rue (Zendaya) and her drug addiction issues via a graphic depiction of the overdose that sent her to rehab. Then, there's the disturbing rough sex scene featuring Jules (Hunter Schafer), a teenage trans girl who has just moved into town, and a middle-aged man she met on Grindr. Oh, and don't forget the unchecked, toxic masculinity of uber-jock Nate (Jacob Elordi); or the body obsession of his sometimes-girlfriend, Maddy (Alexa Demie). For me though, the ultimate trigger came via Barbie Ferreira's character Kat's experience, as she dealt with and internalized a vicious form of fatphobia.

Kat—almost alone amongst her friends—seems self-assured and dismissive of the idea that any high school drama should be taken too seriously. "You just need to catch a dick and forget about your troubles," Kat tells Maddy, following the latter's recent breakup with Nate. But internally, Kate craves male attention, and resents the fact that she's the only virgin she knows; she hints at this when she tells Maddy that she'd "settle for, like, four Corona Lights and some non-rapey affection," from a guy—any guy.

Kat's bravado leads her into a compromising situation at a high school party; she winds up in a room alone with three boys, where she talks a big game about how she's a "savage" who watches porn and has slept with more people than any of them can count. None of this is true, but Kat is determined to become "a woman of questionable morals."

The scene shows the fine line between being an empowered young woman deciding what to do with her body, on her terms, and being a teenager who thinks she's in control but doesn't fully understand the power dynamics at play. Because, yes, Kat is trying to make an intentional decision about her sexuality and how to use it, but she's doing so with a group of boys who don't value or respect her. This reality is made clear when one of them says to her, "You know what they say, right? Fat girls give the best head."

At those familiar words, I melted into my couch and said a silent prayer of gratitude that I wasn't watching Euphoria in the company of anyone else. Onscreen, Kat, too, shrinks ever so slightly into herself, all while trying to keep a poker face about the whole thing. We don't see exactly what happens in the room, but, later, she seems happy when she shares the news with her friends that she's lost her virginity; even though she then lays down, awake, scrolling through the guy's Instagram, seeming altogether less than happy.

Kat's isn't the most violent or necessarily the saddest story line in the episode. But it showed the ways that issues like consent, toxic masculinity, substance abuse, and body image—all of which are difficult to deal with no matter what your size—are further magnified when experienced through the additional trauma of fatphobia. This is something with which I've personally dealt, and so I felt my past experiences rise up inside me when I watched how Kat couldn't build her own sexual identity without being constantly aware of the ways her body exists outside the parameters of acceptable desirability.

My childhood and adolescence are defined by my experiences as a fat girl; it was a time that often felt like a hazy battlefield, when I could hardly navigate which feelings and thoughts were my own, and which ones were the result of outside forces. My body hardly ever felt like mine, and it took years to develop the autonomy that Kat is grasping at as a teenager. Kat, like so many other fat women, has a total lack of support from her peers when it comes to body image and acceptance, and there's a devastating absence of affirmation about her own worth and the importance of her pleasure. Because of fatphobia, Kat is going to be swimming against a strong, but invisible current as she navigates the already fraught social politics of high school. It's one thing to grasp this truth on an intellectual level, but letting those principles guide your decision-making is truly difficult—even for an adult, let alone for a teenager.

Euphoria airs Sunday nights at 10pm, on HBO.

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Courtesy of RLJE Films

White-knuckle your way through wedding season with Maya Erskine and Jack Quaid

Maya Erskine might have first come to our attention in PEN15, the hilarious show she co-created and stars in with Anna Konkle, in which they play 13-year-olds in the year 2000, but in the just-released Plus One, Erskine is all grown up and engaging in a very familiar adult activity: white-knuckling her way through wedding season.

Written and directed by Jeff Chan and Andrew Rhymer—who just so happen to be Erskine's former NYU classmates—Plus One stars Erskine and Jack Quaid as Alice and Ben, two longtime friends who decide to attend a summer of weddings together, and avoid any of the awkwardness that can come with finding the right plus-one. This is especially important for Alice, who is coming off a bad breakup. Of course, as the laws of rom-coms dictate, nothing stays totally platonic. Beyond that, though, Plus One doesn't fall into predictable rom-com tropes, and instead hilariously explores what it's like to spiral into a quarter-life crisis, all while dressed in optional black-tie. Which, we've all been there, right?

"We kind of use the script as its own therapy," Chan told me recently, when I spoke with him, Rhymer, Erskine, and Quaid, about the film. "We were watching friends who have been broken up for a long time get back together at weddings; we were watching people get really sad and get drunk and start crying... they were breeding grounds for lots of emotions coming to the surface."

Courtesy of RLJE Films

And those emotions have the perfect outlet at weddings in the form of toasts and other assorted speeches. Plus One makes good use of that platform by making the wedding speech the hilarious eye of the storm at each of its weddings. These toasts were delivered in the form of scene-stealing cameos—also friends from NYU, of course.

"Almost all of those speeches are based on a real speech Andrew and I have seen," Chan said. "We'd go to a wedding and [we'd think], Yep, that's going in there."

Rhymer adds that they used these speeches as metonyms for the weddings, which made sense time- and budget-wise: "Being an indie film, we obviously produced 12 weddings, but did so kind of cleverly, showing you the rooms or the side rooms where they're rehearsing. We weren't seeing 12 full-blown receptions in all their glory... that would have been, like, millions of dollars."

But perhaps what's most refreshing about Plus One is that it destroys the image of weddings—and, by extension, relationships, and women, in general—as having to be fantasies, as having to be perfect. Because nothing is perfect, and that's what makes life interesting. Erskine, for one, likes being able to show the weirder sides of life, whether as a 13-year-old girl washing a thong with hand soap or a millennial woman who doesn't know what comes next. "There's something really liberating and freeing to show and bear the ugliest parts of yourself—or what society may deem as the ugliest, weirdest parts of yourself—that no one wants to see," she said. "I'm also an over-sharer. So I am drawn to roles that expose more than is typical, and everyone is weird in one way or another."

"I think," Erskine laughed, "it's because I myself am a wacky trash goblin." As it turns out, that's exactly what rom-coms have been missing, until now.

Plus One is in select theaters and available to stream via Amazon now.

PLUS ONE Official Trailer www.youtube.com

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Photo by Nicholas Hunt/Getty Images

That's one way to solve a wardrobe malfunction

Cardi B twerked so hard during a performance that she ripped her outfit and had to rock a bathrobe for the majority of her set.

At Bonnaroo in Manchester, Tennesee, as Cardi got a little too down and into it, a seam split on her bedazzled body-con jumpsuit only moments into her set. Not one to be set back by a wardrobe malfunction, Cardi B rocked a nude strapless bra with a bathrobe on top, making for a Serious Fashion Moment.

"This wasn't just part of the show," Twitter user Lena Blietz pointed out. "No one performs in a nude, strapless bra by choice." I have to agree there. A strapless bra is the bane of my existence on a slow day, I can't imagine what it's like to have to dance in one on stage.


Honestly, watching Cardi perform in this getup made me a stan for life. Despite it not being as flashy as her jumpsuit, Cardi made the bathrobe work, throwing the shoulders down for drama as she paced the stage during each song.

Bonnaroo attendees couldn't help but agree that a bathrobe and nothing else is a mood we all felt in the very, very hot and sweaty crowd. If she had one in my size to share, I would have gladly changed in a heartbeat.

But, despite loving this comfy solution to a big problem, I'd like to take a moment to appreciate the beauty that was the original jumpsuit. RIP.

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Photo courtesy of Summersalt

And launched an inclusive summer campaign showcasing 30 different models

Just in time for swim season, sustainable swimwear brand Summersalt launched an inclusive summer campaign, called Every Body is a Beach Body, and significantly expanded its size range.

The brand's sizes now go up to 24 and 2X—quite a jump from its previous availability, which went up to a size 14. Co-founders Reshma Chamberlin and Lori Coulter told NYLON that the size expansion was a must because "we know that there are countless women out there who are missing out on the joy of summer because they don't have the right suit." They noted that they have plans to expand the brand's sizing even more: "We're excited to continue to add more sizes and be even more inclusive."

For the summer campaign, each suit was fitted on 30 professional and non-professional models ranging in body type to ensure it would look great on as many bodies as possible. "We wanted the models for this campaign to be just as diverse and unique as our customers, and we're proud to show models of different sizes, races, gender identities, and physical abilities," said Chamberlin and Coulter. "We want our customers to see themselves in our models, and know that their body is a beach body, exactly as it is right now."

The new collection includes bright new colorways and styles to rock at the beach or the pool. There are bikinis, one-pieces, and even a swim tunic and leggings for modest fashion wearers.

Check out the campaign and some of the new styles, below, and shop the new collection now at Summersalt.

Photo courtesy of Summersalt

Photo courtesy of Summersalt

Photo courtesy of Summersalt

Photo courtesy of Summersalt

Photo courtesy of Summersalt

Photo courtesy of Summersalt

Photo courtesy of Summersalt

Photo courtesy of Summersalt