Brianne Hogan

sommelier. noser. author. roxane gay fan.

Seriously, the lady is Busy with a capital “B.”

brave. bawdy. decidedly not depressed.

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

I’ve decided that I no longer want to depend on an exchange of cultural consumption or “comparing lives” currency in order to feel good about myself.

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

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.

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

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.