Zara in London fake smiling through her mental illness. When I was 24, I moved to London and had a nervous breakdown. When I was 21, I packed up my bright yellow Bug and drove east to New York City, where I lived with four roommates in a repurposed, unheated warehouse space in Williamsburg. When I was 17, I catapulted into Los Angeles, high off of my delusional dreams of being the next Natalie Portman.
Allow me to explain where my love of the small-town gay bar stems from.Įver since I fled the dismal confines of suburban high school, I’ve mostly called big, glittery, scary, isolating, opportunistic cities home. There is nothing like a small-town gay bar.
