Trigger warning: This piece (and video) contains frank discussion of depression and self-injury.
The other day, I was celebrating my classes being over by sitting on my couch in my pajamas all day, watching TV, catching up on all the Internet goodness I’d missed while working on papers, and in general being lazy, sloppy, and a little smelly. I was in a good mood. In my Internet wanderings, I happened across a link to Pink’s video for “F*cking Perfect,” which I had not seen:
Read More Fucking Perfect: On Loving and Being Helpless
I ran my first race on Saturday, the Hot Chocolate 15k in Chicago. As I dragged myself out of bed at 6:30 in the morning, several hours earlier than my normal Saturday waking time, I swore if I had not shelled out a hefty fee, I would be on my way back to bed, and that I would never again subject myself to rising early on a cold Saturday morning to run. Later, while I and my brother yelled with the shock as we took off long pants and coats to put into gear check, I swore it again before sending my much faster brother to the first start corral, and heading towards my own start location. But as I waited by myself for the race to begin, I started to feel some excitement looking at the women surrounding me. Read More Racing Myself