I also dressed in boy clothes starting in my tween (before this was a word) years. I sprang up tall, grew big perky boobs which were suspected to be fake, and for funsies, started menstruation super early. Add in acne, inability to apply tasteful cosmetics, and inability to style my stupid hair, and ugh. I still wear…

Ugh. It sounds like a clinical rotation with more IV drugs.

Didn’t you get paid in Norco like the rest of us? Over 17 you get compensated in narcotics. It’s probably a law.

Fairy Shrugged.

Religion is also cited as a reason for the family of the abused to think she must have “done something to deserve it.”

Does it come with a t- shirt that says “no one knows where I am, who I’m with or when I’m due to return?”

I’m mostly a “chill” person because my personal Valhalla includes great wine, delicious cheese, an engaging book and stunning beauty all around me. It’s not that I’m inactive, rather my profession has me constantly moving, thinking critically and making life and death decisions. The biggest decision I want to make on…

My ink is all memorial in nature and this makes me want to change that. I want celebrations of life and beautiful experiences to complement the healing pieces I have.

Take deep slow breaths, chew some gum (silently, you monsters) and apply some ear plugs to drown out screaming children, various blowhards and overly nosey neighbors.

Better concert experience: Parliament Funkadelic at a raucous college campus Halloween weekend at a uni known for its insane Halloween festivities. I remember little besides many adult men wearing clown wigs, Depends and boots. I believe there was at least a contact buzz from cannabis smoke and possibly some ill-…

This is the opposite of the Jewish goodbye: say good night but don’t leave for at least 2 more hours.

I believe the “Finders Keepers” doctrine may apply. If not, she should have asked God for a diamond that she could keep. Dieties and genies are often very literal.

It’s not possible for your friend to have been fairly compensated for that sh*tshow gig. I can’t even imagine the horrors her job entails.

How did you steal my cat?! There can only be one of these felines in existence, correct?

I saw Scott Weiland a few years ago. It was literally the most depressing thing I’ve ever paid money to watch. He was clearly, painfully obviously back on heroin and could not remember half the words to his own songs. He slurred and mumbled and vomitted.