The Sunday Draft

Midsommar is supposed to be graceful. Outdoors. Surrounded by nature and delicate things. Flower crowns, white dresses, wooden tables under trees, girls named Freja whispering folklore while sipping elderflower cocktails. That is not what happened at my Midsommar party. Our version was inside, a little sweaty, and completely derailed in the best way. There were no birch trees or meadows. There was pizza. There were paper plates. There was a Bluetooth speaker blasting pop songs that slowly morphed into someone’s frat playlist. It was sticky and loud and covered in flower petals and glitter by the end. Honestly, it felt like summer itself cracked open and spilled onto the floor. It started out sweet. We wore flower crowns and for a few brief moments, the room actually felt ethereal. People laughed, helped each other put them on, and took cute photos. Then the drinks started flowing. The playlist got louder. The air got warmer. The vibe went from “gentle pagan ritual” to “why is someone ...

                 When California Governor Gavin Newsom took to the podium to respond to recent federal immigration raids and escalating militarization in Los Angeles, he did more than criticize a sitting president. He delivered a powerful defense of vulnerable communities, a clear-eyed warning about the dangers of unchecked federal power, and a rallying cry for civic action. Grounded in themes of racial justice, immigrant rights, and the erosion of democracy, Newsom’s speech makes one thing unmistakably clear: the fight against authoritarianism starts on the ground, with the people. From the beginning, Newsom centers his outrage on the human cost of immigration enforcement. He contrasts past bipartisan strategies focused on deporting those with serious criminal records or final orders of removal with what he calls “mass deportations,” which he says now indiscriminately target “hardworking immigrant families, regardless of their roots or ...

         I am not a Starbucks barista, but I am a loyal customer. So loyal, in fact, that my local Starbucks feels more like a second home than a coffee chain. I know the rhythm of the morning rush, the scent of espresso drifting out the door before the sun is fully up, and the faces behind the counter who remember not just my order, but my name. I visit the same location so often that I could probably take a shift behind the register if it weren’t for the fact that I have no idea how to work the espresso machine.      But it’s more than just frequency that connects me to this place. During one of the roughest chapters of my life, I practically lived there. When everything else felt uncertain, Starbucks became my constant. I would settle into the same corner seat, headphones in, laptop open, nursing a flat white for hours. It wasn’t just caffeine that kept me going, it was routine, familiarity, and the quiet kindness of people who noticed when I d...

                                As an avid reader and frequent reviewer of books, I am well-acquainted with the vast spectrum of literature. I’ve spent countless hours in libraries, bookstores, and late-night corners of my room, chasing the resonance of a well-formed sentence or the revolution of a character’s transformation. Reading is not a pastime for me; it is an enduring relationship. I’ve reviewed everything from contemporary fiction to historical memoir, psychological thrillers to experimental prose. And yet, despite my deep and active love for literature, I have always felt resistance, sometimes frustration, toward one particular genre: fantasy. This resistance is not born of ignorance. I’ve given fantasy its fair trial. I've read what I was told were the “essential” titles: the epics that launched a thousand spin-offs, the beautifully bound books with ornate maps and rich lore. I’ve j...