Jody Amable

So far, Deathly Hallows is, to me, about the divide between the living, the dead, and the living who have seen death. Harry and I are part of an exclusive club: Those under 30 who have experienced death. And when I say “experienced,” I don’t mean “witnessed.” I mean really, really felt it, all the way through.

The further I get into this series, the harder time I am having remembering what the eff has happened so far. You see, I am an Old Lady.

No matter how drunk he is, he can’t NOT notice this. His hand is moving. What do I do? What do I do? Do I politely ask him to stop? Do I yell at him? Do I wheel around and whack him in the face? You don’t know what he’s doing, Jody. Calm down. Don’t make a scene.

A new feature with music picks tailor-made to ensure your weekend jam sessions are absolutely ravishing.

According to the magazine, women need special help understanding sports. Cue the glorious, hilarious Twitter outrage.

The neighbors turned their lights off. My dog fell sound asleep. I kept reading. And at 1:03 am, I finished. All was well.

There are a lot of things to hate about the Olympics.

Creator of grungy, gritty rock and roll with a poet’s heart, her critically-lauded record, Beyond the Bloodhounds, tells tales of a tumultuous childhood and split geographical identity.

Forget a cute story of wizard wonderment — the real moral of Harry Potter is that life is an endless parade of pain and turmoil where you have to watch everyone you’ve ever loved die.

Like most nerd realms, music writing is a predominantly male world. Especially if, like me, your greatest love is classic rock.