Brianne Hogan

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.

Dry humping my pillow and imagining it was David Duchovny seemed a much hotter alternative than doing the real thing.

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

Three of my grandparents died within seven months of each other. And I didn't even have a driver's license.

If you’re looking for a health and wellness guru, look no further than Ani Phyo.

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.

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

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.

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