…I wanted to tell her that investing in popularity carries with it the same amount of safety and stability as investing one’s life’s savings on the stock market. Highs and highs and devastating losses. Continue reading
“Does this require some sort of trip to the lady’s aisle?…Some days just suck. You gotta take it like that. You gotta ride it out and then get back to awesome.” Continue reading
I have been a lot of vehicles in my lifetime. I was, back in the 80s when all things of goodness and wonder existed, a lot shinier. My tires were firm, my paint job was fresh and untouched by winter. … Continue reading
The truth is, I’ve felt pretty blech lately. I feel frumpy and plumpy and drab. I feel like my hair is dull and my legs are too dry. I don’t feel beautiful, I don’t feel even vaguely “that’ll do”. I … Continue reading
They’re all “Bachelor Man, I really love you. Like really love. You, Bachelor Man. I love you. Please look at me. Bachelor Man? Say it back. Please? You love me more than you love Crazy the Psycho Girl, right? Bachelor Man? Have you seen my boobs, Bachelor Man?” From there, it progresses like this: all but three finalists are weeded out and saved from the rest of the humiliation which comes with being a finalist. Continue reading
Summer’s approaching, and with it, such great things as days spent in the sun, midnight jaunts to the beach and long, lazy evenings on my deck.
I’m looking very forward to summer, as it carries in its freedom song the great promise of everything fully alive. I love the feel of hot beach sand beneath my back, the sun bright and waves lulling me to sleep. The scent of fresh cut grass is easily among my top five scents (remarkable, I know, as I hate cutting the grass itself) and the taste of popcicles and watermelon.
For years, though, there was one part of summer which I absolutely abhorred. Shorts. I still hate shorts, to be honest, mainly because they feel like fashion that has given up (too lazy to be pants, not committed enough to be a skirt), but one particular issue rose up repeatedly for me where shorts are concerned—my scars. Continue reading
I can look at my scars as a thing of elegance rather than ugliness. They are not signs of where the world has sliced me like cattle at a butcher shop—piece by piece being sold to the highest bidder (the going price was never enough to cover my losses). Continue reading
The playground. The park. The beach. The mall. The bus. The Internet. The office. The church. The … everywhere. You’ll find them, or they will find you.
Shame will cut through you one day when you realize that you, too, can be a Mean Girl if you allow yourself to be drawn in by its power and position. Continue reading