No teams. No team captains. No manipulating the trajectory of some ball. Just every single one of us, our hands, and a magnificent disc of nylon.
It’s been one month since Brexit, an international narrative foreshadowed by this tale of public poo-poo in East Yorkshire.
Open to the chaos, and become a true whine connoisseur.
For once in my white life, “making it personal” is not about seeking personal satisfaction. That’s not easy for me.
Oh, you’ve got this, have you?
Why call vaginas “flowers” or “hoo-hoos”? Here’s why.