Jenni Berrett

Part of me wants to write this off as innocuous and carry on with my day, because homophobia is already everywhere and there are better things for me to dedicate my words to — but then I remember 10-year old me.

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

Is laughter the best medicine?

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

This chihuahua protecting her tater tot added a solid 5 years to my life, I'm pretty sure.

[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.

Podcasts are a beautiful thing, but there is only so much of Ira Glass’ nasal story-telling out there.

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.

In the midst of struggling with being depressed, you’re also saddled with the practical realities of staying alive. It’s no easy feat.

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.”