Joni Edelman

Good god, where will I ever find someone who will love me in such a pitiful condition?

Don’t most kids feel afraid to come home?

Welcome to #RavsWriters, an opportunity for you to get to know some of the outstanding human beings who fervently type to make Ravishly the aw

I don’t think of myself as fat. Not inside, anyway.

4. A high school government class.

When I was little, any time I got an insect bite or stubbed my toe, I had to ask my mom, “Am I going to die? If I was going to die from this, I’d already be dead — right?” I also had a 30-minute prayer that I needed to say at each meal or else everyone would be poisoned and die. And corners. I had to check all of them before I went to bed.

I was told that feminism is man hate. That abortion is murder. And then I thought, "What am I doing here?"

Good news: they'll probably grow out of it. Bad news: probably not until they are 23.

“I don’t even know what to say, Joni. Your baby isn’t alive.”

By baby three, well let’s just say things are a little anticlimactic, at least where furnishings are concerned. Hand me down crib. Check.