I Grew Up With Guns and They Still Scare the Living Hell Out of Me

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When Armageddon comes, you’re going to want to be friends with my dad. That’s what I tell people. This has nothing to do with his amiable personality or his pulled pork sandwiches, and everything to do with the artillery of guns he keeps in a safe that could easily fit the bodies of four grown men.

I grew up eating the spoils of the hunter: quail, a New Year’s Eve treat that left us picking buckshot from between our teeth; bear meatballs at Thanksgiving parties in lieu of beef; marinated venison kebabs on burnt wooden spears for Christmas. The evidence of the year’s slaughter often presented itself around the holidays, when hundreds of pounds of gamey meat kept in the garage-kept deep freezers of the off-duty cops and mechanics like my dad was brought out for special occasions like the birth of baby Jesus, whether or not anyone was actually Christian.
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That Time I Burned a Hole in My Hand at a Modeling Job and Didn’t Sue

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I hadn’t thought about them before, the light bulbs. I had been working for this client for the better part of three months as a fit model, which is about as close as you can get to regular contracted work if you’re not a Victoria Secret model.
Most models — the girls you see on runways and in magazines and on big billboard campaigns — reach their peak in their early 20s. That’s when the elastic in your skin is still taut and the wrinkles haven’t set in. After that, the lucky ones, like Daria Werbowy, become the “mature” faces of luxury. The majority of the others fade into obscurity, moving back to whatever country they came from or marrying a rich guy.

 

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It Happened to Me: I Got LASIK and It Failed

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The following is an excerpt from a piece featured on xoJane.com:

It seemed to have happened all of a sudden, as though I woke up one morning and overnight my vision had taken a turn for the worse. I stood on the subway platform, staring across the tracks at the familiar mosaic sign denoting my local stop, each green and white tile blurring into one another, a fuzzy approximation of what had once been so reliably crisp. I kept rubbing my eyes, blinking hard, all in the hopes of denying what was actually happening, which was that my very expensive, incredibly cherished LASIK was failing. 

Click here to read more.

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