Self compassion: How to Instantly feel better after you make a mistake

All That Glitters: The Dark Side of Lisa Frank and The Masks We Wear on Social Media

“Gold in its raw form appears dull and does not glitter.” Like most girls my age, I grew up on Lisa Frank; to this day I have never loved a boy as much as I loved my original Lisa Frank trapper keeper. And as a feminist I deliciously delight in non-ironically reappropriating the pink colorful glitter images Frank iconized as celebratory and powerful rather than weak and flippant. So while groggily sitting on my parent’s back deck this morning where I have been living for the past 6 months due to some of those wonderful life-likes-to-kick-you-in-the-ass-unforeseen-circumstances, I’m half enjoying my day off thanks to the long holiday weekend and half suffering through pangs of loneliness, deeply isolated from the glitzy city lights of Atlanta 30 miles away. As I scroll through my friends’ posts and pictures of their frolicking late night adventures around Dragon Con this weekend, adorned in pink wigs, high heels, outrageous costumes, and ridiculously (yet genuin...

Confessions of a Waitress

Waiting tables is sort of like that thing you do until you can get a real job. It’s great in a lot of ways: it can work around your schedule if you are in school or trying to be an actress or a Mariah Carey biographer or something, you can leave with cash and make pretty decent money, and you can meet a lot of cool people. That being said, waiting tables is also one of the most grueling jobs and can sometimes make you hate people, a lot. It’s a pretty weird concept when you think about it: you are there to serve someone else, by definition. A little dehumanizing right off the bat. Second, it puts your financial success (or failure) in the hands of random people you don’t even know. I guess a lot of people still don’t realize that the wait staff relies (usually) entirely on their tips for income. You make $2.15 an hour and that money goes to your taxes. So your paycheck is a big fat zero. When you stiff me on a tip, it really affects me. For anyone out there who happens to...

Saving Yourself from Heartbreak in the Nick of Time (While Suffering From BPD)

I shoulda never listed to your woeful stories The ones I'm sure you told a thousand times before me THE FIRST TIME you traumatized me, I was 29. It was my initial year of graduate school and I had just moved back to the city. I was adapting to a new body; a better one, I thought, than the one that had given me so much trouble growing up. The one that made me hate myself. (But you didn’t know that girl, and never bothered to get to know her.) You got to meet the new me, the one that shed both the physical and metaphorical weight of my past. Our first date, I was disappointed. You looked like your pictures, sometimes, in certain lighting, but I didn’t feel any immediate attraction. You told me later it was love at first site for you. I found that so strange we had such different interpretations. I know now, that was a sign for me to not continue a romance with you…but this new me was attracted to your attraction to me. You weren’t like the other guys I had dated ...

Arn't I A Woman?

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