Brianne Hogan

I’ve decided that I no longer want to depend on an exchange of cultural consumption or “comparing lives” currency in order to feel good about myself.

For a long time, romantic love was an esoteric thing to me that I assumed would occur eventually, like taxes and having your clothes dry-cleaned.

I sent out Christmas cards this year, which I wrote upon with an actual pen. But it wasn’t always like this.

Dry humping my pillow and imagining it was David Duchovny seemed a much hotter alternative than doing the real thing.

The chin hairs were the first hint of my impending senior discounts and early-bird dinners.

accidental movie star. founder of crankytown. wannabe villain.

I've cried on subways from Toronto to New York. I cried bombing an interview, going to a party that I didn’t want or because my sweater was itchy.

public speaker. author. entrepreneur. loss-to-love alchemist.

brave. bawdy. decidedly not depressed.

Jenny Trout. Abigail Barnette. Jennifer Armintrout. Missing anyone?