Dirty Talk
Real talk is dirty. It’s not that I have forgotten stage fright.
Real talk is dirty. It’s not that I have forgotten stage fright.
I did this on Instagram. I was touched by the sensitivity of the questions asked. It helped me shift the heaviness of my heart.
It is the face of a woman that the world likes to call a Strong Woman. It is a tired look. A jaded look. A bored look. A dismissive look.
The Novelty Girl. The Character In Someone Else’s Coming of Age Story. The Manic Pixie Dream Girl. The Guilty Pleasure. The Bucket-list Woman. Names I’ve been called.
A poem written for Earth Day about climate change
Play a game with me. Ready? Pick any one answer: QUESTION: What do you call a guy who makes a call at 1:30AM stoned and drunk to a girl who said she was having a bad day at 11:30PM? A. A thoughtful, considerate, caring person who is taking time off…
I was trolled last week about my appearance. Other people’s reactions brought me insights about the role of shame in their lives and made me think about mine.
I’ve noticed a new kind of man. He opens with transformation stories of how he was XYZ and uses that to excuse his lack of effort. I call BS on these guys.
I met somebody recently. Someone who has known me for nearly a decade, only I can’t remember them at all. All the references check out, the dates line up, the stories match. And yet, there’s a gaping hole in my memory where this person should be. All I can find…
The thrill of it. The validation. Why do people cheat?