As a fellow single woman, Emma Watson proudly labeling herself “self-partnered” should be viewed as a watershed moment.
Courtney Herron was found down the road from my house, Eurydice Dixon was murdered in a park I walk through. I could have been either of those women.
Call it research, or perhaps sadism, but I’ve watched every Hallmark Christmas in existence. I have emerged, clued in, but numb. So very numb.
I’m perpetually looking backwards and crippled by nostalgia, but I feel a universal undo function would fix everything.
I may have lost my father twenty-five years ago, but no one told me about the complicated nature of grief.
My therapist’s approach to anxiety is to help me accept things the way they are, instead of letting them stress me out. That doesn’t transfer to today.
Life coaches, spiritual guides, and similar gurus all point to an un-manifested destiny as the source of all your problems. Truthfully, the universe doesn’t care for you.
As a woman without a child, I’m constantly queried about when the time will be. You know what? Get your mind out of my uterus.
In my generation, we’ve had demonstrations against the Iraq War, Wall Street, and against marriage inequality, but today’s climate change protests will stand alone.
Flying back from Los Angeles, I was strip-searched, one of the most terrifying and dehumanizing ordeals of my life. When you’re deemed a security risk, your rights disappear.