living for the
Quit your job. End the relationship. Get on a plane. Do something new. Follow your gut. Take no shit. Believe in your ideas. Go, go, go.
This is the anti-patriarchy, anti-job-you-hate, anti-stuck, anti-trapped-in-your-own-life newsletter for unconventional women (and those in training). Every weekday morning at 7am Eastern you'll get 3 ideas to help you go, go, GO.
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It’s gonna be scary but that's better than your greatest hits being taking the trash cans back and forth down the driveway for the rest of your life.
No matter where you're starting…
What kind of confidence do you need today?
I am a fickle bitch, and it's one of my greatest qualities. In fact, I wish the word “fickle” were more attractive—it sounds too much like “pickle,” and one time in college I read a book called “Tickle His Pickle,” so I think it's clear that (a) I am a true academic, and (b) Using the word “fickle” makes my mind wander. But if the word weren't so ugly, I'd use it to describe myself all the time. Fickle (adj):
There were greasy hot dogs on the counter. Four of them. Naked and un-bunned, flopping around inside a glass Tupperware dish for all the world to see. I had many questions, including “are these for sale” and also “where are the onions,” but perhaps the biggest question I had was: WHO PUTS HOT DOGS IN THE FRAME WHEN TAKING A PHOTO FOR ZILLOW? Zillow, as in, the real estate website where other people look at photos and decide if they
I fantasize about pugs. Not the way other people fantasize about pugs, mind you—nuzzling them and squeezing them and squealing “oooohhhhhhh!!!!” before scooping them up in their arms for a welcoming, wet kiss (what is wrong with people). Rather, I want to put their tiny little gargoyle heads straight into a vise. (I thought about writing “meat grinder,” but that seems a bit much.) So far in life, I have had not one, but two pug sworn enemies, and I
Jesus, yes, I need a change.
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Sorry to your friend Monica who rolls her eyes and thinks you should just “suck it up.”