Jenni Berrett

Part of me wants to write this off as innocuous and carry on with my day, because homophobia is already everywhere and there are better things for me to dedicate my words to — but then I remember 10-year old me.

This chihuahua protecting her tater tot added a solid 5 years to my life, I'm pretty sure.

I’ve been mentally ill pretty much my whole entire life, and it isn’t something I see going away any time soon. I don’t see that as an inherently bad thing.

At some point intellect has to make room for something bigger, for something scarier than just about anything. In order to truly learn something, you have to be vulnerable. You have to walk in and set your broken parts on the table and say, “Here, fix it. Or at least be broken with me.”

Boy, do we have some great finds this week. Olympic farting and synth-soaked summer jams — what more could you want? If your answer was "a longform piece of investigative journalism detailing Nicki Minaj's appearance at a bar mitzvah," you've come to the right place.

Marina, if you're reading this, please be our BFF.

It was the night before my father’s funeral that I finally asked the tarot for help. I was incapable of imagining a future where I delivered his eulogy.

“Girls don’t masturbate, right? I don’t masturbate. Do you masturbate? Can girls masturbate? I don’t think they can — I’m pretty sure my mom doesn’t.”

The premise is pretty simple: We each give you one thing to watch, one thing to listen to, and one thing to read over the weekend.

More than any other unsolicited mental health advice I’ve received over the course of my life is the admonishment to “fake it till you make it.”