I’d like to talk about one of the worst days of my life. Seven people died on that day, but I didn’t know any of them. Yes, it was
You don’t care about my metabolism. Specifically, you don’t care about the grinding halt to which it came, and then turned around and spit in my face and kicked
I don’t remember my wedding. I don’t remember college. I’ve been to Brazil, apparently. I’ve seen Bruce Springsteen on Broadway, sat in middle of the first row. (First row!)
“The meaning of our existence is not invented by ourselves, but rather detected.” — Victor Frankl So, how often do you think about who you are? Every day? No?
Please don’t tell me I should see a doctor first. I already know this may be crazy. Dangerously unhealthy. But I’m doing it. First, I have an insanely high cortisol
Everyone knows there are things you do not say when people tell you they were sexually molested as children — things like: Well, what were you wearing? That explains a lot.
Did you ever read the story “Flowers for Algernon“? (It was also a movie called Charly.) Here’s the story: Charly is an adult man with an IQ of 68,
Hello, my name is Dixie, and I’m a shopaholic. (Hi, Dixie.) I’m not your credit card debt, hoards bags and bags from TJ Maxx kind of shopper. I’m more
Last week I opened up about my broken brain. I keeping with my pledge to make a new confession each week, this post deals with something about which I am
Maybe folks will look at this headline and think, “Big whoop” or less charitably, “Duh.” Actually, as a relentless over-sharer, my adding another confession to my list of not-so-secret-secrets