Defining success is hard.
Some scary scenarios right here.
I have been watching music videos for a long time but the videos listed here are without a doubt the ones that had me stuck. That doesn’t mean I like the music (some I do and some I don’t) but it was just something about the images; the concept and/or dance choreography that made me …
A lover once told me that if I were an entry in a dictionary it would simply read: ?
I think many women can attest to having a complex relationship with their breasts- at their best, breasts can serve as a way to nourish a baby or boost your confidence. At their worst, breasts can be sources of insecurity, and they can be downright painful.
I want to be body positive, but I just feel so betrayed.
One school day, when I was a young teenager, my guidance counselor called my mother to tell her she needed to pick me up. I was being sent home for the day because they found out I was “cutting”—using cuticle scissors to carve stripes into my thighs and lower belly. My mother brought me to …
I have the same eye condition doctors think Emily Dickinson had. Not bragging or anything.
James Franco is sexiest when he’s severing that arm nerve.
I used to be her: Wanting a boy because he was good. Acting like nothing could touch me, but desperate and hungry and broken inside.
All the questioning comes to this: is life an end in itself? We know that to live is a gesture of great faith and belief in the human experience — is it worth it? As much as my sadness wants to say no, there’s some part of me, the part maybe most human, that always says yes, of course it is.
At what point do we face our demons without the shield of a To Do list?
Everyone has a safe place in their home. Maybe it’s under a pile of favorite blankets or scarfing down leftovers perched on your countertop. Lounging in a beige papasan chair or lying spread eagle in your hallway, doesn’t sound too shabby either. My safe place is the bathroom. The ladies’ room. The commode. The unmentionable. …
I would watch her drawing on a large notepad, telling me I wasn’t a real artist if I didn’t draw nudes, or sitting, fiddling with something, being envious of how clothes looked better on her than they did on me, and wishing for that. I was six. She was eight.
At first I’d read the headlines filled with buzzwords like “Vaginal Cosmetic Surgery” and “Porn Pussy,” and I would think smug thoughts. “How self-obsessed does a woman have to be to get vaginal cosmetic surgery?”