Jennifer Fliss

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All the feels. If you take this out of context (and it’s never really in context), it sounds vaguely pornographic. No, not vaguely. It does sound pornographic. So a kitty and bunny befriending each other should not evoke “all the feels.” Otherwise please step away. Slowly...slowly...now go.

Chick-fil-A is at it again. This time they’re out to help. Honestly. They’ve rolled out a new service, the Mom’s Valet. Moms can order their food via the drive-thru and then go inside the fast-food restaurant, where a table will be ready, complete with high chairs and booster seats, and then have their food brought to the table by an employee. The program isn’t implemented by their corporate office yet, but has been rolled out in over 100 Chick-fil-A outlets.

It is the denigrating soundtrack of a breast pumping session. You, sitting at its mercy. It, just taking and taking.

Here’s the thing: I have benefited greatly from reading stories from others, the daring narratives of those who have histories similar to my own. We feel more human when we hear that other humans relate to an experience we maybe thought was our very own private hell.

A photo of your long-dead cat, Milo, in a brass Easter egg-shaped frame. Oh, sweet animal, I miss your furballs, you think when you hang it on a low branch. Milo had an uncanny ability to hork on laps when unwanted visitors overstayed their welcome.

Chick Flick Cherry: If it’s about romance, it’s a chick flick. About love: chick flick. Maybe it’s about chickens. Poultry love. Either way: for you, I’ll watch it. So you can pop my cherry afterwards. My nail polish is just asking for it.

Many people (rightfully) believe that women own their bodies, and that, therefore, they should be in control of their own bodies. So why do those same people turn around and try to define girls by their clothing?

I am alone.

You wake up to birds chirping, just kidding, you don’t, because it’s February and it’s freezing, and also you have a kid.