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.