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A friend is someone who knows where all your bodies are buried. Because they're the ones who helped you put them there. And sometimes, if you're really lucky, they help you dig them back up.

Jenny Lawson

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Jenny Lawson
Age: 50
Born: 1973
Born: December 29
Author
Journalist
Jennifer Lawson
Back
Bodies
Sometimes
Lucky
Really
Friend
Ones
Help
Helping
Someone
Buried
Body
Helped

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When Hailey was born my first thought was that I needed a drink and that hospitals should have bars in them.
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When I was in junior high I read a lot of Danielle Steele. So I always assumed that the day I got engaged I'd be naked, covered in rose petals, and sleeping with the brother of the man who'd kidnapped me.
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...and whenever I had menstral cramps, I could just pretend that Voldemort was close.
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Because you are defined not by life's imperfect moments, but by your reaction to them. And because there is joy in embracing - rather than running from - the utter absurdity of life.
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In short? It is exhausting being me. Pretending to be normal is draining and requires amazing amounts of energy and Xanax.
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Grandpa did everything at his own pace, a speed that my sister and I referred to as 'when snails attack.' ... My grandparents' house was only about ten miles from ours, but the ride there would necessitate sandwiches packed for the trip, and several books to keep us occupied.
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Writing is my therapy. In addition to my real therapy. God knows where I'd be without it. I'd probably still be at my last job, working in HR at a religious organization. I was horribly miscast.
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A hug is like a strangle you haven't finished yet.
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It’s amazing how much you’re missing in a depressive state until you start to come out on the other side. It’s like breathing again after being underwater for far too long.
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I was having problems with depression and anxiety disorder, and it felt like not blogging about it was creating a false history. When I did finally share the problems I was having, I was shocked - not only by the support that was given to me, but also by the incredible amount of people who admitted they struggled with the same thing.
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I can finally see that all the terrible parts of my life, the embarrassing parts, the incidents I wanted to pretend never happened, and the things that make me weird and different, were actually the most important parts of my life. They were the parts that made me ME.
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I am the Wizard of Oz of housewives (in that I am both Great and Terrible and because I sometimes hide behind the curtains
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In fact almost everyone in my yearbook wrote the same thing to me: To weird girl, you're nice. I didn't think it was bad. When I showed my mother she said, Everyone is different. Being weird became my tool. I'm weird that's who I am. It was my coping badge.
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Every time I get scared or feel like I'm not going to be good enough at something, I say that mantra to myself. Pretend you're good at it.
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Even at age 10, I already knew that I was different from most people. My anxiety disorder was still years from being diagnosed, but it affected me quite deeply. I was too afraid to speak out in class, too nervous to make real friends.
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One ox, two oxen. One fox, two foxen.
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But really, what else are you going to talk about in line at the liquor store? Childhood trauma seems like the natural choice, since it’s the reason why most of us are in line there to begin with.
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I'm pretty sure 'ferral cats' is code for 'vampire cougars.
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A house should look lived in, and I consider it clean as long as I don't stick to it and it doesn't give me cholera.
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When I was little, my father used to sell guns and ammo at a sporting goods store, but I always told everyone he was an arms dealer, because it sounded more exciting.
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