Culture

Here’s the thing about scales: They don’t tell you anything about your health or your happiness or your well-being. They are a number that is rooted in gravity and in space you’d weigh zero. So throw it away.

My jeans are tight, and show off the curve of my ass. My black shirts are fitted, sometimes low cut, but always flattering to my figure. The only thing that isn't crafted to maximize my appearance are my non-slip shoes. Otherwise, I have to look pretty. Pretty girls get better tips.

I don’t think you meant well. You wanted to vomit your discontent to the world. Isn’t that embarrassing? Or is it like a seven-cocktails-and-two-shots kind of vomit?

At some point intellect has to make room for something bigger, for something scarier than just about anything. In order to truly learn something, you have to be vulnerable. You have to walk in and set your broken parts on the table and say, “Here, fix it. Or at least be broken with me.”

“Why would you do that? You have a daughter. Why would you put yourself in that position?”

Am I betraying the core values of feminism by voting for a man when there’s a woman candidate in the race?

I'm not a woman. I never was. Full stop.

My oldest daughter Sophie is not even 3, and she is awesome. She’s unapologetic about the space she takes up, any inconvenience she may cause, or if she passes gas in public. No. Big. Deal.