A con man fabricated a broadcasting contract with a major network in order to get me to Russia for the Sochi Olympics.
One week would be amazing -- filled with love letters, flowers at work, and plans for our future. The next he would call me crying, saying he got news from his doctors that the cancer was spreading.
It’s not even that I hate being fat. I hate that I cannot control it.
Yep, it's called a hymenectomy.
I was working part time behind the Reference desk at a public library and on the weekends I would often just go straight to the strip club after my library shifts.
300,000 people in West Virginia are affected by our chemical-laden water, and all I see in the news is Justin Bieber and figure skaters.
I called his office, he told me that his phone died, that he forgot his charger at home. He’d call me later. 10 days of nothing. He disappeared.
I'm only now speaking publicly about why I wrote the vicious obituary. Even in death, this woman still gives me nightmares.
I had been mocked, rejected, disbelieved, and fetishized because of this stupid imaginary thing, but this time, instead of trying to hide this albatross around my neck, I was going to whip it out and deal with the consequences.
During the first couple of weeks in my cocoon, I was a walking nervous breakdown: There was nothing to distract me from all of the stupid things I’d done to get in my own way, which was an overwhelming epiphany.
One of Angela's last texts to me said, "I love you so much Alexis. Now go out there and be funny."
In the shower I watched fistfuls of it block the drain. Long orange ropes hung between my fingers after a shampoo. I'd run a hand through my hair while talking, and dozens of strings of it would come loose, dangling from my fingers as I stared.
I’m in denial that I have a gambling problem since I’m not feeding dollars or quarters into a machine in Las Vegas. Instead I’m seated at my dining-room table playing a free slot machine on Facebook.