Brianne Hogan

Last week was my imaginary ex-boyfriend's birthday. January 2, to be exact. I only know this because Facebook told me so. I had forgotten about him.

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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.

The turkey was rubbery. The mac ‘n cheese was cold. But somehow the meal was delightful.

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

brave. bawdy. decidedly not depressed.

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

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

accidental movie star. founder of crankytown. wannabe villain.