I am long, tangled blonde hair with roots that show. I am broken fingernails and cracked knuckles and my father’s eyes and my mother’s smile and lip tugging when I’m nervous.
My brownies are to die for.
I pen monthly letters to my grandmother, but rarely make time to visit.
I am my little brother’s favorite person.
I once won a sack-the-pig competition at a western Kentucky fair. The prize was cotton candy.
I can’t balance my check book, but I will always beat you at Catch Phrase.
I have a bookshelf full of photo albums of prime blackmail of my siblings. The eighties were a really bad time for fashion and eye wear.
I can slaughter even the most simple of karaoke songs, breakfast is the only meal I can cook, and I know every word to every Chevy Chase movie ever made.
My best friend was an 80-something-year-old man who used to teach me life lessons over cupcakes.
One of the great mysteries of life is why the DMV continues to renew my driver’s license.
I wish I had a Husky—not because I particularly want a dog but because there’s nothing I love more than a pair of pretty blue eyes.
My husband is a chronic hobbyist and the best person I’ve ever known. If it wasn’t for him, I’d have $400 flatware and store sweaters in my oven. Oh, and a really boring life.
My skin gets pink when the sun shines, I always eat the middle bite of peanut butter and jelly sandwich first, and I will never, not ever pierce my belly button.
I am absolutely terrified that I’m going to screw up—at life, at love, at marriage and all of the most important things.
My narratives are rich, my supporting cast is colorful; and if I were to be a typeface, it would be bold.