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.

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

Three of my grandparents died within seven months of each other. And I didn't even have a driver's license.

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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.

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

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The cards showed me the Tower and the Ten of Swords, which is basically bleak shit worthy of jumping off a tall building.