Pink Hatter. It’s a gnarly term in Boston for female sports fans who must obviously be pretending.
“What does it mean?” It means it’s time to slow down.
I’m solitary by nature. I withdraw. I keep whatever it is internalized and I shut out the world. I become convinced I can solve everything on my own. I’m always stubbornly assuming that I’m just one joke or casual shrug away from everything being okay again, even when situations are obviously and blatantly not okay.
I’m going to hate that this is my opening paragraph and I’ll tell you why in a minute. But, for the sake of starting this, let’s just get it over with: another person from my hometown recently died from a drug overdose.
“Hi, it’s nice to meet you. You pluck your eyebrows too much. Can you grow them out?”
But – to be honest – it’s incredibly bittersweet for me.
Two days after Thanksgiving, my father was rushed to the hospital. He was delirious, incoherent, and had lost all control of his legs. A day later, he had a seizure so severe that they had to sedate him.
Before you know it, you’re three or four books into a nasty dry spell. You’re ready to give up hope until – finally – you find a book that is engaging and dynamic and entertaining.
I’ve actually been asked this question before…
Many scoffed at the idea that these cartoon characters could in any way affect body image issues in women.