Brianne Hogan

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.

sommelier. noser. author. roxane gay fan.

brave. bawdy. decidedly not depressed.

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.

Jenny Trout. Abigail Barnette. Jennifer Armintrout. Missing anyone?

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.

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

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

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