Brianne Hogan

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

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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.

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

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

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.

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

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