Brianne Hogan

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

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

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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.

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.

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

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.

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.