If you need to know one thing about me, it is this: I love my name. My name is boss. To be clear, my name isn’t actually “boss,” which would be weird. But it is boss as in the slang (that dates back to the 1880s!), meaning super hip and with it. Somebody should give my parents a medal or something for coming up with this spectacular moniker for their firstborn child.
My name is Lindsay Rae. Currently, I am standing over a garbage can in my unicorn onesie, eating a chicken leg and typing on my laptop with fingers…
Writing is hard work. So hard, in fact, that I recently concluded that I’m probably never going to make a ton of money at this endeavour. Yes, I could mope about and cry that it’s just not fair and all of the evil algorithms are working against me, but I choose to look on the bright side instead.
So today, I’m here to say that I don’t even want to be a thousandaire.
All you content marketers can stop emailing me your “How to make thousands of dollars writing” articles. I don’t want or need them.
I’m doing me, y’all.
So you’ve decided to love a wordsmith.
It is a daunting task considering your writer’s tendency towards self-loathing and bouts of inadequacy-induced rage while staring blankly at a word processing screen. Not to mention the countless beta reading sessions you must partake in even though you are not interested in space-themed erotica even in the slightest.
On the bright side, loving a writer means never having to say you’re sorry, but this isn’t what we’re looking for right now.
As someone who simply loves the writer, it’s not your job to analyze their work. This is the good news —…
I was dealing with rejection long before I ever became a published writer. There’s a good possibility that this is why I’ve been able to stick it out in this industry of sorry-not-for-us emails and crippling rebuffs.
Ever since I was old enough to be interested in boys, I’ve been getting rejected by them. Social anxiety that came out in the form of loud outlandish proclamations, combined with my ability to cancel plans within minutes of making them, has caused me to not fare well in the dating world.
It’s a story as old as time.
Weird girl develops a…
The night air is sweet with the smell of danger on its winds. -Carla the Caterpillar
Nowhere is safe anymore. Once, when I was but a small larvae, I dreamt of a world filled with possibilities. Now, as I look hopelessly forward to my transformation into a proud geometer moth, I fear that day will never come.
Who knew that instead, I would be sanctioned to a life of servitude from my winged brethren. I want to tell you that I pressed on, living my life and doing all of the caterpillary things that ones of my kind enjoy doing…
The term “Don’t get your panties in a bunch” means don’t get bent out of shape over the small stuff.
For years I’ve lived abiding by this notorious rule. I never stressed too much when money troubles came up because, as it usually happens in this middle-class white girl’s life of mine, things always seemed to turn right before too long had passed.
I also never worked myself up when seeing social media posts regarding inequality, racism and unjust behaviour.
Because, as my apathetic nature would whisper in my ear, there’s not much you can do about it anyways, Lindsay…
Please, imagine if you will, you’re a spritely young Argonaut Octopus named Phil. You’ve grown over the course of a lifetime, only one inch in length — a mere fraction of your female counterparts size.
One day you wake up with a grave realization. It is time to spread your seed. This is not a decision you take on lightly because, alas, the consequences of such activities will be dire to you, Phil, the octopus.
You are a rarity in this deep blue jungle and know that once you’ve done your duty of carrying on the Argonaut race, you will…
As I start this humble-brag article elucidating my claim to fame on Medium, my Lucy-dog sits on the floor beside me, glaring in my general direction with baleful eyes.
Look, Luce, I know you want to go on your walkies, but I’ve got to get this article written to document the wild ride of my first year on Medium. These are the sacrifices I am willing to make in order for others to follow in my glorious footsteps.
In all truthfulness, my footsteps aren’t that glorious. …
For three years, my husband and I owned a small sandwich shop/bakery. Oh, the adventures we had working together there. From stealing kisses in the back storeroom while disgruntled customers tapped their feet impatiently at the register to an old drunk dude coming into the restaurant and telling me I was too fat to be married to my handsome husband.
It was indeed a glorious time to be alive.
Aside from the fact I got to work side by side with my best friend and the love of my life, I won’t lie to you and say things weren’t challenging…
You may not think that an infant child would have a lot to say about the conditions in which they were brought into this frigid hellscape of a world, but I sure do.
I’ll set the scene if you haven’t had a chance to watch the shit show that was the first week of my life.
Good ole, Mom and Dad are driving on a remote road in Norway. Wait, let me stop myself right here. …
Mother, writer, user of too many hastags.