People may say that TV kills brain cells, but it certainly helped me be a better sister.
I was stuck for half a decade because I refused to admit that I was gay. I knew I was, but I clung desperately to the fictitious dream that I had crafted for my life.
That’s what being an adult means: knowing that no one’s going to do those invisible, annoying tasks unless you do them yourself.
That’s the first mistake us early 20-somethings make, thinking deserving something means it will happen. Maybe it does. But often, it doesn’t. You work. You hope for luck. You put your heart and soul into things. But you don’t wait.
I am 23 years old and still come crying to my mother.
Growing up in a small town in the early 1990s was sometimes both a blessing and a curse, at least to the mind of a child.
Checking your voicemail causes a strange panic inside you. CAN’T YOU JUST TEXT ME?
Dear lost girls, my warriors in shades of “I’m not good enough.” You are more than enough.
There are so many different routes to get wherever you want to go, you guys.
I had friends of every race. Why would one’s skin color matter? It certainly didn’t to me.