Samantha Galasso

Journalist & Creative Writer


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Girl sat by the bar. She stirred her drink with the thin straw, her eyes lowered. She always had such long eyelashes, Boy thought. She always knew just how to look through them up at him in such a way that would make him stop, just for a moment, and acknowledge that within that brief three second interval where their vision would collide, nothing was more important than those eyelashes. 

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In memorium

Today I woke up. 

I woke up a few times, actually, because I’m in love with the snooze button. I rolled out of bed entirely too late, lackadaisically picked out an outfit and cursed the morning for settling for that in-between cloudy/rainy-but-not-really weather. I never know what to wear on days like that. 

I went to class. I sat through it and wondered why I didn’t drop the course. I ate a cookie while the kid next to me confessed he was still drunk from the night before. I almost fell back asleep because the darkness of the lecture hall was so tempting and discussions about molecules seemed like a very strange bedtime story that would escort me into weird, somewhat boring dreams.

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I think a lot of people have it in their mind that authors are like 30something women (50something men) with two cats living in a studio apartment in a really cool urban city. 
Meanwhile I’m a 20something year old girl with two cats living in my parents house in the suburbs so…halfway there.