Getting naked with 790 strangers was less memorable than I expected.
Getting naked with 790 strangers was less memorable than I expected.
I definitely do not have bitchy resting face.
I wanted to get my knickers in a twist. I wanted to be righteously indignant about the bizarre cost of flying over the Pacific Ocean.
You wouldn’t think getting lost with my dad in Arizona’s suburban sprawl on a Thursday night would be my favorite holiday memory.
Who takes double the usual university credit load, holds down a job, and plays on a sports team practicing twice daily?
Who works an eight hour cafe shift followed by an eight hour bar shift every day for an entire summer?
Who covers year-long foreign travel itineraries in 10 weeks?
I’m about to blow your mind. Did you know there is actually a designated side of the cutting board one is supposed to use? They are not, in fact, reversible?
You wouldn’t call them “fans.” Spectators, maybe.
“Do NOT challenge my map reading skills!” I barked at Boyfriend. I cast a furious glare over my shoulder from the bow of our canoe.
I made it all the way to 31 years of age before setting foot in the infamous town of Aspen, Colorado. My presence there was happenstance.
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