I watched the movie AWOL last night, and the truth is, it was just an average movie. But I was fascinated by it. I was fascinated by it because the movie is set in Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania, where I grew up, and everything from the trailer to working at the ice cream stand was the spitting image of a life I once knew so intimately. It was like stepping back in time—the junk yard pick up truck; the boozy men; the
When You Feel Like a Hot Mess Full of Walking Contradictions and WHO ARE YOU AND WHAT IS YOUR LIFE?
You don’t have to choose, you know. You can be intelligent…and sensual. Extroverted…and introverted. Complex…and simple. You…and someone who’s evolving into someone else. Sometimes, in an effort to finally define who the fuck we are, we start putting ourselves into the little boxes voluntarily—the same ones that we spent our earlier years trying to escape. It gives us relief, to be in a box. To have an identity. To know something with certainty. And to be able to say, with
You Wanna Be a Killer? Ask Yourself This Question Every Single Day
Alright, hotshot— so what are you going to do today to change it? *los you dead in the eye* *walks away*
The Top 10 Commandments of Becoming Unf*ckwithable
Thou shall not wait for an imaginary endorsement from The Committee of True and Actual Greatness to affirm that you’re good enough to put your work out there. The traditional meritocracy meant that you could work your way up the ladder—but you’d have to wait for some creep to give you permission to climb each rung. From promotions at work, to having your art featured, to getting your own magazine column, to speaking on the topic of Teletubbies (or, hey,
Pleasure Doesn’t Need an Appointment
In the mornings, I let myself linger underneath the covers, twisting the full, fluffy comforter up and around my face, letting my feet dance in the cotton. It feels so good, to slide your soles through the cool material—almost sinful. When I shower, I surrender to the warmth of the water, letting it caress my skin from my shoulders to the top of my ass, and really feeling what that feels like, to be nude—and alive. When I sip my
Sometimes, It’s Easier to Lie to Yourself, Than Do the Work
If you were overweight and believed that you simply didn’t have the “genetics” to be slender—do you think you’d ever try? The stories you tell yourself aren’t your truth—they’re your shackles. So, what other things are you lying about?
Working Yourself to DEATH: A Twisted Badge of Honor Reserved for The People Who Are Really Hurting
I remember when I was a little girl, I had a brilliant way of dealing with problems: Take one slice of American cheese. Fold it into fours. Pile two squares onto each cracker. Get as many crackers onto the plate as you could. They say that some people “stuff down their pain” with food, but I think it’s the opposite: You want your pain to be noticed by somebody else. It’s the only way you can show just how much
Perhaps This is What Entrepreneurship Has Given Me Most: It Has Taught Me How to Fight for Myself.
The men came with trucks. To the naked eye, they loed like movers. In and out they passed the length of the trailer, hurriedly, sweatily, carrying boxes upon boxes back and forth, like ants. “Can I get you an iced tea?” I asked. They gulped them down like dogs. I wanted them to like me. I didn’t know if they’d really be able to sell my mother’s pewter knickknacks at auction—nor her collection of John Grisham novels, her wooden end
There’s a Difference Between Being Proud of “The Work You Do” and Being Proud of Your Work
Floating through life, without ever thinking about much, is way too easy. You could plow through your to-do lists, keep your head down, busy yourself endlessly, and then wake up in twenty years and realize: I gave my life away, like a trinket to be bartered, and today I lo around me and realize: It was a bad deal. Here’s a soberingly serious question: Do you actually like what you do? Does it energize you, the way a trip to
You Aren’t Obligated to Be the Same Person You Were Five Minutes Ago
So often, we make choices based on “what feels right for us.” To most people, that sounds like sage advice. You’re “being true to yourself,” after all. What we don’t consider, however, are the limitations. If you’re constantly making decisions based on who you are in this very moment, you don’t leave any room for who you want to become—or who you need to. Sometimes, you’ve got to do what DOESN’T feel right. Sometimes, you’ve got to say “fuck it”
It Is a Tragedy, To Spend So Many Hours Working, and Have None of Them Matter to You.
It is a tragedy, to spend so many hours working, and have none of them matter to you. Why would we ever do this? Why wouldn’t we do something we care about, fiercely? Maybe we just aren’t sure what that is. Maybe that’s the real problem.
There’s a Modern Trick to Getting What You Want, These Days. Shhhh. Come Closer, I’ll Tell You What It Is.
What if I told you I was giving you your very own daily column, where you could write about anything you wanted? What if I told you I was giving you your own TV show, where you’d be the star? What if I told you I was putting you on the radio, where you could talk about the things that mattered to you every week? And what if I told you that we were going to do fancy photo shoots,
Answering The Scary, Hairy, Xanax-Provoking Question: What the **** Should I Do With My Life?
Mediocre questions for figuring out what you should do with your life: What type of industry should I go into? Which career path should I pursue? What kind of job should I get? What kind of business should I start? What services should I offer? How should I price this? What do I write? How do I do it? HOW CAN I BECOME A RICH, SKINNY BITCH WHO LOOKS FLAWLESS ON INSTAGRAM AND EATS CHILDREN FOR BREAKFAST? A better one: What
Growth Requires Muscle Tears
Yesterday I talked about change—and it’s no coincidence. I’m making some big changes myself, given that a lot of things are coming to an end, right now. Because iteration is what we’re all doing, every single day, even if it blows by us going 100mph down the freeway. (In a red Ferrari, sming a cigar, with a license plate that reads: TOOFAST4U.) We iterate as we breathe; we iterate every time we exercise; we iterate every time we learn something
Change Is Fucking Messy (Thank God)
Change is fucking messy. You’re effectively molding yourself, and re-molding yourself, the way a sculptor would a piece of clay. And yet, nobody says to the sculptor: Shame on you, butter fingers, for not having it perfect the first spin. Rather, there’s an expectation of process. Of trial, of error, of slow transformation; of forming, fashioning, shaping and smoothing. Nevertheless, we—masochistically enough—don’t allow ourselves the same courtesy. We expect flawless perfection, right out of the box. We beat ourselves up
When Following the Crowd is GOOD FOR YOU.
So the other day, it happened. There was one person stubborn enough to finally coerce me into doing the one thing I’d promised I’d never do. I’d hedged for many painful weeks. (Okay, fine, months.) I’d squirmed and I’d squithered (new favorite word) and I’d writhed and I’d wriggled. And yet, she kept asking. “Today at 5:30!” “Are you coming today?” “A little birdy told me today is the dayyyyyy.” And every time I’d try really hard to talk
There’s No Such Thing as The Committee of True & Actual Greatness™
You know what’s the absolute worst? Waiting in at the doctor’s office. There’s a lot of anxiety around that, am I right? Nobody likes waiting at the doctor’s office because we all secretly think that the doctor’s just sitting behind a closed door somewhere, doing wheelies in an office chair, watching the minutes churn past with glee as they browse the latest in cutting edge gardening techniques while the rest of us waste away huddled together in
Success Isn’t More Deserved When It’s Hard . . . BRAH
Can we talk about the fact that today is February 2nd? How is it February the 2nd already? Am I eighty hundred years old yet? Because time seems not to be going my way. (Though a friend did recently compliment me on my skin, however that was only because she didn’t see my neck. Is this the decade in which we slowly descend upon a dysfunctional, passive-aggressive relationship with turtlenecks?) Speaking of time, you ever notice that when you’re away
So This One Time I Thought I Had Breast Cancer—And The Doctor Was a Huge D*ck
So today I placed my boobs into a giant, hospital-grade George Foreman grill and held my breath as the nurse to the X-ray. Let me tell you what, there is nothing quite like hoisting the flesh of your nipple onto a cold metal surface while a stranger watches. I mean, they’re definitely judging you. If not the size of your areolas, your dexterity. They’re there tapping their foot while you’re fuddling along with some necklace that never effing clasps when you want
UNF*CKWITHABLE BOSS: Red Hot, Brand New, Business Development & Refinery Program. Now Open for Enrollment!
Hang onto your pumpkin loafs! (By which I mean, eat all the pumpkin loaf and then get yo’ glasses on, because there’s big news in the house today.) My brand-new business mentorship program has just rolled up in a Cadillac and is currently swigging vodka before making its debut onto the red carpet. It’s called UNF*CKWITHABLE BOSS, and it’s here to change the face of modern work forever. Unconventional name? Check. Unconventional purpose? Double check. If you’ve been thinking about striking
Women Don’t Learn How to Be Strong & Confident & Brave in Home-Fucking-Ec.
Once upon a time, I to Home Ec in high school, which is hilarious, because based on tweets like these, I must have failed: I tweeted that out a couple of days ago after Googling “How to trick your mother-in-law into thinking canned tomato sauce is homemade,” which inevitably led me into chopping, like, four fucking onions with a butter knife and spooning an entire cup of sugar into the pot, because if a spoonful of sugar helps the medicine
To the Woman With the Fake Smile: Stop It, You Fucking Pigeon
Can we all just stop, already? Stop apologizing. Stop saying sorry. Stop shrinking into some small little ball-less version of yourself—you know, so you don’t make all the other ball-less twats feel uncomfortable. Or risk offending somebody. Or do something controversial. Or doing all of that and then totally screwing it up and feeling stupid. God forbid. I’m sick and tired of it. I’m sick of seeing you hesitate. Second guess yourself constantly. Smile weakly. FUCKING WILT. You’re wilting away
Is Your Life *Actually* a Good One? Can You Even Decide? What Does Good Even MEAN These Days?
It’s hilarious, really. You spent the first twenty years of your life worrying what the f*ck you were suppose to do on this planet—with your ONE BIG PRECIOUS LIFE that every other poster won’t shut up about—only to spend the next twenty years wondering if you did it right. Because, did you? Was this what life was suppose to lo like? Did you do it right? Pass the test, check the box, score the A? Like, is your life
For a Long Time I Secretly Worried: What If I Was Screwing Everything Up?!
We’re on a transatlantic flight to London. I just bite into the kind of sausage one should never bite into, and now that we’re exactly 552 miles away from our destination, I realized that my eyes were less than sprightly and my hair loed like Fiona fucked a bird’s nest. So I did what any resourceful woman on a transatlantic flight to one of the most fashionable cities in the world might do: I brushed it. With a toothbrush.
“Ding, Ding, Ding! You Can Have Fun Now!” <—The Universe Is Never Going to Send You This Email, Yo
I’m going to England tomorrow. By which I mean I’m stepping inside a long metal torpedo and sitting my fat ass down on some murky blue pleather for an exact distance of 5,429 miles across a cold, dreary ocean that always makes me wonder things I shouldn’t ever wonder. Like: Would I actually remain calm in case of THE BIG EVENT, like I think I would? Would I place my oxygen mask a top my bouncy little cheeks, knowing exactly
We Desperately Need to Learn How to Be Mothers to Ourselves
New life rule: If your mother is dead, DO NOT GET ON FACEBOOK ON MOTHER’S DAY. Not that it’s not pleasant to see the resemblance between every friend I’ve ever made and the woman that birthed her (THOSE EYES! THEY LOOK LIKE SISTERS!), but when you don’t have anyone to celebrate, and you’re not a mother yourself, you can end up feeling like everyone is having Christmas without you. In other words: Where the f*ck are my banana pancakes? Which is