After reading this, I demand you go tell everyone you know that you love them. I'm serious.
“You’re the 76th girl I’ve done that with,” he said. The seventieth WHAT? What a weird joke. We’re done here. Get the fuck out of my apartment, I thought.
How can my radar have been so off? How did I fall for someone so hopelessly, so completely, who clearly wasn’t into me?
In 6th grade, I didn’t realize like I do now the impact of a white woman calling out the size of my body and its parts.
When I walked in, I was greeted by both the overwhelming stench of his cologne and the sinking feeling that Keith was not, as I had assumed, gay.
For any girl who has a steady bully, wishing death upon that person is a daily/nightly ritual. But when it actually happens, the last thing you feel is relief or happiness.
Sometimes I wonder how I could have been so oblivious to the fact that proper treatment for pain is, well, not a bad thing.
About 80% of the breakups I’ve initiated were related to how this relationship really gets in the way of my exercise schedule.
I once got a late night phone call from one of our facilities that a maintenance worker had discovered a couple. Having sex. In a stairwell.
What made me say "this is enough" was having two young people killed by the police.
A Turkish man, realizing my naivete, quickly threw me inside the Burger King. Not even 30 seconds later, a huge whitish-grey cloud of tear gas started to surround the street.
At one point, I even considered becoming an escort to make extra money to fund my addiction. Ultimately, I just couldn’t imagine busting it wide for a pair of Prada wingtips.
I started hoarding my hairballs in high school. Now I keep the hairballs in my purse pocket, the way other women would guard a confidence-boosting lipstick or nicotine gum.
The last thing I remember is stepping into the street.
After spotting the books on display I snapped a surreptitious photo and uploaded it to Twitter. I called the books “insanely offensive,” which was a feeling shared by other users.
cone of shame
No, no, not the puke on the face part. But that cone! It's a real ice-breaker, I tell you.
One second it was a nice morning, the next second three rottweilers* were snarling and chomping on my dog like they were starving and she was filet mignon.