Jenni Berrett

[CN: vomit] Having been an unfeeling, sluggish husk of a person with the nap-taking skills of an elderly sloth for the past five months or so, I have reemerged too tender for this world.

Here we are, your fearless Internet explorers (pun totally intended), back with another melange of web flotsam for you to scavenge.

"...Mental illness isn’t that exclusive. It doesn’t care how your day is going."

This week includes mostly chihuahuas. You're welcome.

More than any other unsolicited mental health advice I’ve received over the course of my life is the admonishment to “fake it till you make it.”

I’m just going to come right out and say it: RuPaul’s Drag Race is the best show on television.

Culturally speaking, though, it’s pretty much set in stone. Even if I left the church entirely, there’s no getting out of my heritage. Cut me open; I’ll bleed funeral potatoes. I’m what you call a “legacy Mormon” — my ancestors migrated across the frontier and settled in Utah (then Mexico) after facing unspeakable persecution from countless communities in the United States. You probably know my ancestors best as the people with the wives.

My dad died. I only know my own grief, and even that is debatable. If you’re hoping to comfort someone who’s grieving, here are a couple of things to know.

There has been a lot of discussion about the who of this ten dollar bill. We have until 2020, but there are already some popular suggestions: Harriet Tubman. Rosa Parks. Eleanor Roosevelt.

It was the night before my father’s funeral that I finally asked the tarot for help. I was incapable of imagining a future where I delivered his eulogy.