Winona Dimeo-Ediger

Now, it may seem like the NRA is comprised of emotionally stunted gun fetishists with a shriveled up copy of the second amendment where their hearts should be, but that’s simply not true. They totally cry about stuff! Not mass shootings of children, but other stuff. Just to be clear, here are 10 things worth crying #REALTEARS, according to the NRA.

For example, if you’re having gastrointenstinal distress, resist the urge to hashtag it with something generic like #diarrheacramps. Instead, include your first and last name and the date to make it your own: #LynnSmithDiarrheaCrampsFebruary2016.

This woman has serious swagger. It’s a slightly more subtle swagger than, say, Snoop Lion, but it’s there: in the nonchalant flick of her wrist while tossing garlic cloves into a food processor; in her decision to throw a spontaneous formal garden party just because she made a frittata, and in her firm pronouncements to use only “good” ingredients — without ever defining what that means.

Justin: I know you know that I made those mistakes maybe once or twice. Me: Once or twice? Really, Justin? Justin: And by once or twice I mean maybe a couple a hundred times. Me: Right. Now we’re on the same page.

Right now, on Facebook and Twitter and other social media platforms, thousands of women are freely sharing knowledge, opinions, and personal experiences. Chilling, isn’t it? If you’re a man on the internet, your duty is to swiftly and decisively correct them. This is a beginner’s guide to mansplaining on Facebook.

There are so many ways to be creative. There are no rules about who can create and how and when and why. In every incarnation, professional or amateur, shared or secret, creativity makes the world better.

One of the best things that happened when I downsized my wardrobe was that I finally felt like my clothes were working for me, not vice versa. I wasn’t constantly stressed about the mess in my bedroom from clothes that didn’t fit in the dresser. I no longer had daily freakouts about what to wear while staring at an overstuffed closet. I had a nice selection of clothes that served me well.

Dear Winona, I’m addicted to black. Exhibit A: my closet. Am I fashionably lazy? Or is it because it just goes with everything—mainly me?

I call this happiness by proxy

Instagram: Don’t eat it though, just hold it. With a stiff, outstretched arm in front of a whimsical mural on a decaying brick wall.