Brianne Hogan

The cards showed me the Tower and the Ten of Swords, which is basically bleak shit worthy of jumping off a tall building.

Last week was my imaginary ex-boyfriend's birthday. January 2, to be exact. I only know this because Facebook told me so. I had forgotten about him.

accidental movie star. founder of crankytown. wannabe villain.

I sent out Christmas cards this year, which I wrote upon with an actual pen. But it wasn’t always like this.

From fierce bunnies to books, Sonja rocks the art world.

The turkey was rubbery. The mac ‘n cheese was cold. But somehow the meal was delightful.

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The chin hairs were the first hint of my impending senior discounts and early-bird dinners.

I've cried on subways from Toronto to New York. I cried bombing an interview, going to a party that I didn’t want or because my sweater was itchy.

For a long time, romantic love was an esoteric thing to me that I assumed would occur eventually, like taxes and having your clothes dry-cleaned.