Search History #5: ThoughtWebMd Symptom List

I’m the most melodramatic person

in the entire world.


I talk a lot

about how much I make my own

fingers bleed so regularly

but really it’s all I ever think

about because have you done it?

it hurts. I can’t even wear white

anymore. I think it might be

genetic because my mom

does it too and she doesn’t stop either

no matter how many times I tell her she



I used to be such a terrible

black and white thinker

but now I’m absolutely

not at all.


I’m definitely

fine, I think

I might be making this up.


10 days left to apply to our e-board

Are you curious about magazine editing? Passionate about semicolons? Do you enjoy workshop? Join the 2018-2019 e-board of West 10th! Positions are available in our poetry, art, prose, web, and copy boards. No prior editing experience necessary, but we do encourage some workshop knowledge. Apply by Friday, May 18, 2018, 5pm to be considered.

Email with your application.


Q&A with West 10th Editors

Q&A w: West 10th Editors

Are you curious about what it’s like to be an editor at West 10th? Come to our Q&A session on Friday, April 27 and hear our current editorial board answer questions about their experience at the publication. The even will take place in Kimmel 906 from 6:00 – 8:00 PM, food and drinks included. We hope to see you there!

RSVP here.

Search History #4: 27 Club

From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia



The 27 Club is a term that refers to the belief that an unusually high number of popular musicians and others in the public eye (?) have died at age 27,[1] often as a result of drug and alcohol abuse, or violent means such as homicide or suicide (an explanation of ‘violent means’ felt necessary).[2]


Literal studies have failed to find any unusual pattern of musician-deaths at this age. Hilarious to note is a study done that concluded it is not to do with the age, but rather that “young adult musicians have a higher death rate than the rest of the young adult population, concluding fame may increase the risk of death.” I repeat: Fame may increase the risk of death. That’s simultaneously somehow the most and least chic thing you’ve ever heard, right? Pretending like it’s got something to do with a magical number of 27 is more mystical, but also, imagine a death certificate that says, “Cause of Death: Fame.” [3][4][5]


This shit gets a lot of press. Quite an anomaly—fame gets famous. Exclusivity gets a bit more exclusive when death enters the room. Also important to note is that you might feel a bit of panic when you’re the age of 27 because you’ll realize that if you die this year, you’ll not be a part of the club, probably. I don’t know, because I’m not 27, but it’s something I think about. Dedicated to the club, there have been exhibitions and novels and films and stage plays and this Wikipedia page you’re reading at the moment.[6][7][8][9][10]


I will give you a list (you would not be on this page if you did not know who it consists of, I think) but it’s a curated list of a curated group. It’s the ones you’ve heard of. God, imagine being in the Wikipedia list of “27 Club Members” and not having a Wikipedia page? Sometimes I like to imagine the 27 club as a sort of offset afterlife. Like heaven but way different. Imagine that dinner party! So much angst! Also, I want to know why you ended up here, on this page. You probably do too. One time I did a project about celebrities and death in which we imagined a life in which your death literally granted you access to something. Which is this. God, fame, right?! Can’t let ‘em live, can’t let ‘em die.


Brian Jones, Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Jim Morrison, Kurt Cobain, Amy Winehouse, Jean-Michel Basquiat.


You’re probably at this point thinking “God all these people are so coolor maybe you’re rolling your eyes and saying, “God all these people are so similar.” Either way, I wonder why you think so.

Search History #3

At the time of this search, if you put in every single letter in the alphabet into Google to see the top search result for each letter, all but two are the names of businesses or corporations. The outliers: translate and weather. Amazon, Bank of America, Craigslist, Dominos, Ebay. Ad (infinitum).


The Wayback Machine is a digital archive of the World Wide Web and other information on the Internet created by the Internet Archive, a non-profit organization, based in San Francisco, California, United States. It enables you to capture, manage and search collections of digital content without any technical expertise. The service enables users to see archived versions of web pages across time, which the archive calls a

“three-dimensional index.”


Google search 2/29/17: This Must Be The Place

Google search 3/1/17: Define Unsolicited

Google search 3/3/17: Healthy heart rate

Google search 3/5/17: True Romance

Google search 3/27/17: Incessantly

Google search 3/28/17: Is chewing 13 pieces of gum bad for me

Join the West 10th 2018-19 Editorial Board!

Applications are now open for the 2018-2019 Editorial Board!

We are seeking to fill positions on the poetry, prose, art, web, and copyediting boards.

Please direct all questions and completed applications to Applications are due by 11:59 pm on Saturday, May 26.

Please download and complete the application below:

West 10th Editorial Board Application 2018-2019

*Note: please do not apply to the board if you are graduating in December 2018. This is a full-year commitment.

French Tarot, by Jae


Out of the blue, avalanches pulled trains

into the ocean. Your father got distracted

while coming undone & the people—

they watched his descent, void of guilt.


There’s a reason you hate fortunetellers

& examination. They instruct: Never kiss

a throat so soft. Avoid September favors.

See if you have your father’s red headache.


You burned too much space & the world

got a little smaller. Painting oysters

only goes so far if you keep swallowing them

whole, sitting on tea-colored pews.

Search History #2: on the day I was born

In our newest column, our Copy Editor Carliann Rittman writes blog posts based on her Internet search history. It features everything from Wikipedia to The New York Times, from WebMD to Billboard’s Year-End Hot 100 Singles From The Year Simone de Beauvoir Died (a Google search she is still proud of). Ray Bradbury once said of his inspirations: “A conglomerate heap of trash, that’s what I am. But it burns with a high flame.” Welcome to Search History.

NYT Logo

on the day I was born



after months of speculation



Decaying Trees.

I have been noticing half-moon-shaped, purplish-brown mushrooms with white edges, growing on the side of a tree in my yard.

hard and shiny on top but dull underneath.

Why are these mushrooms growing there?


A whole lot of nothing or a state of grace?

prospects for heart

A cool breeze wafts off the page: walls, white; doors, white; windows, bare; floors, stone or plank; furniture on which no pillow has ever been fluffed.


A new study has shown that lung development is impaired in teen-agers

who smoke as few as five cigarettes a day.

if anyone thinks that Bad news has given up,


Once again, the Republicans have lured television networks into broadcasting nationally for a pittance.

A New York system bore significant blame for the widespread problems.

Diana, the Princess of Wales, flew in from London.

The fashion industry flew down from Manhattan.

dropped off for an hour to stop and shop.



so young, they need only consider what happened in a fiery meeting this morning …


they could fill vacancies.

I love you, by E Yeon

I love you.


I wish I could tell you exactly when and why the words ‘I love you’ became difficult to mean. Maybe the words grew heavier as I gained weight, maybe they turned bitter in junior high… it doesn’t really matter how it happened though, it happened all the same. But on February 26th, 2017, starting right around 2 p.m., I said ‘I love you’ over and over again and I meant every word.

I was in the lobby when I heard that Peter Hart died. I was using a communal desktop to save my data and I was happy because my crush ended up sitting next to me. I was sitting upright, overly aware of my posture and profile, and I was checking my Facebook sparingly because I wanted him to know that I could be serious when it came to my studies. So that was what I was thinking about when Peter died, whether or not I was pulling off the smart and sexy look on a Sunday afternoon.

A couple of things happened before I realized they were happening. A girl named Alex (who I don’t remember ever talking to before) found me in the corner leading into the stairs, and she held me until I could say that I’d prefer to be alone. Some people brought me water, I don’t know who. I tried to clean up in the bathroom and instead walked into my crush taking a shit. I changed into a black dress and tried going to church. But it was an awkward time, they were either in mid-sermon or preparing for evening service; I felt bad about interrupting the good Christians with my irregular guilt, so I ended up sitting in a bus station, near the back entrance of St. Laurence. I felt something that I can only call ‘loud’ come and take over me, and I felt the need to muffle it, or at least cover it up. So I started making calls.

It first started with Maria, then it was Bella, then Natalie, the other Peter, Elaine, Polina and so on. Everybody picked up within the first rings.

Whoever was the first to speak asked, “Are you okay?” and the other, “Yes, are you safe?”

And then it’d go, “I love you” and the other, “Me too.”

It was quick and efficient, almost mechanical. But it was genuine, and everybody knew.

I called Stephen last. He was my connection to Peter, I was a good friend to him and he to Peter. Stephen was probably my favorite person from high school; I took him to Senior Dance. He was the perfect date: he embraced my godawful dancing and offered me his jacket when the first chill set in. At the end of the night, Stephen walked me to the dorm, and I felt love, so much love towards him that I thought maybe I had to kiss him. I’ve done more with people I felt less for. But I didn’t, and I brushed the feeling off as something fleeting, hormonal.




Stephen was already crying when he picked up the phone. He was with someone else, maybe his own Alex.

“Hold on, hold on. E?”

I don’t know how he knew it was me. I never gave him my number. And suddenly, even though I stopped crying an hour before, even though I knew Stephen was probably hurting more, I started sobbing at the sound of his voice.

“No, I’m just on the phone. I need to talk to her. E, are you still there?”

“Yes, I’m okay, Stephen, are you okay?”

“Yes… I mean, no, E. Fuck, I don’t know…”

Then Stephen’s voice trailed off to make a sad, guttural sound and I knew he was simultaneously blowing his nose and swallowing his snot back. And I recognized the love, the love I felt for him at that moment, as the one I felt on the night of the dance. The words came more frantically and more instinctively than ever.

“Stephen, listen to me. I love you. I love you, I love you, I love you. Stephen, I need you to know this. Please tell me you know.”

It was a kind of love that I thought had to come with strings attached but no, it was just love. It just was.

“Don’t leave me, Stephen. Don’t you fucking dare.”

And in the midst of the overwhelming loud, a sudden silence settled within me when he replied, “I know. I won’t. I love you too.”