Tell the haters
you'll send 'em a
Reinvent Yourself in 2022 alongside Ash Ambirge, author of The Middle Finger Project, with her all-new weekly column, UNINTIMIDATED.
Quit your job. End the relationship. Get on a plane. Do something “crazy.” Follow your gut. Take no shit. Believe in your ideas. Go, go, go.
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Written by society & culture writer, blogger, podcaster, and Penguin Random House author,
Ash Ambirge—who absolutely likes Swedish Fish more than you. Why else this color?
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
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Sorry to your friend Monica who rolls her eyes and thinks you should just “suck it up.”