personal essay

Facial hair, marriage, privilege, play parties, ugliness. Just another week at Ravishly.

What kind of feminist must I be if I feel complimented by street harassment?

Last week was my imaginary ex-boyfriend's birthday. January 2, to be exact. I only know this because Facebook told me so. I had forgotten about him.

I’ve decided that I no longer want to depend on an exchange of cultural consumption or “comparing lives” currency in order to feel good about myself.

My cocktail is wrong. It’s a gin and tonic with only gin. It’s a martini with 10 olives. And I can’t stand the sun. Not today. Not this month.

I sent out Christmas cards this year, which I wrote upon with an actual pen. But it wasn’t always like this.

No, Bill Cosby isn't my dad. But he was like one to me growing up.

During dinner one night Abe turned to me calmly and asked, "Giana, are you having sex yet? I'm curious." I nearly spit out my food.