
Two mentors have forced me, thankfully, to reconsider what the fuck I’m doing (or, really, not doing enough of).
Two mentors have forced me, thankfully, to reconsider what the fuck I’m doing (or, really, not doing enough of).
Or: watching the most ungraceful part of myself stumble through situations as if she’s blind-folded and drunk.
A Lemonade-inspired note on fuckboys in gentleman’s clothing.
We are what we create rings true, and thus discounts whether it actually is.
Every time a family event looms on the horizon, I’m forced into mental gymnastics: how to enjoy myself without pushing too many buttons of self-loathing.
I’ve officially lost it just enough to give the old book a shot, and I need to announce it to the world so that I don’t fall asleep on myself (and my word-riddled dreams).
It’s insane to act like the civil war that is my hormones is worthy of forgiveness, as if it’s a crime I’ve forced everyone else to take part in.
A list of things that are “not hot, not not, just meh.” Today’s roundup includes calling someone a “thought leader,” body brushing and Tyga.
I’ve returned to a few old haunts in the last 48 hours and they’ve reminded me that the past (despite its bad rap) can pull you forward if you give it more than a sliver of chance.