It's been years since I've taken a good, hard look at my face. “How is that possible?” you may ask, especially in this social-media-obsessed culture where we're constantly snapping mobile photos of our riveting day-to-day lives. I’m clearly in the minority here with online articles with titles like “Will Resting Bitch Face Cost You Your Job?” and “How to Always Look Surprised So No One Knows What You’re Thinking.” Here’s why: First, who’s got time? As a money-earning millennial woman,

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I am a freelance writer and I write from the perspective of a 20-something, tall drink of manic-depression, proficient in barely passable French, with a face for radio. I’ve been unbelievably fortunate to have gone to school in Paris and to have visited many museums and famous monuments while there and travelling abroad. These experiences granted me the authority to be both pretentious and irritating. [Please insert eye-roll here. I know you want to.] The point of all of this

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I like to think that when I was born, I emerged fully clothed in a lime green sequined onesie. Because emerging naked in public is just not something I would do. There are people who visit nude beaches, participate in naked bike rides, or eat their breakfast in the buff with their curtains open (Hi, neighbor. For dog’s sake, please think of the children!) I am not one of those people. I’m barely comfortable showering in my birthday suit. Don’t

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Americans have an unusual relationship with jeans. Technically I’m an American; I was born here and currently reside in this United States of ‘Merica, but I don't connect with certain pastimes such as loving jeans. Pajama jeans yes, but ‘ol demin without an elastic waistband is blacklisted along with decaf coffee and the coffee enema trend. Being a pear-shaped lady, even at my thinnest, my lower half rejected jeans. There was a brief moment where big booties were accepted into

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