The message in my in-box from “elite dating site” IvyDate read: “At this time, membership in New York City is very strictly capped, and we are only able to accept a limited number of people at a time to ensure diversity of industries and backgrounds.”

For now, all I can do is hang my hopes on the slim percentage that I won’t get breast cancer, knowing that if a tumor develops, it’s not like I can afford to treat that either.

When the invitation came to attend my 20th college reunion, a wave of nostalgia was followed immediately with an overwhelming sense of nausea. Would the questions start again?

There are lots of pictures that are too graphic to publish. Even on the Internet. I have to look at them anyway.

Holy shit.

That was my first thought as I combed through the many college application essays leaked on Gawker after a tip-off to Ivygate of a Google drive folder where the Columbia University Class of 2017 shared (seemingly only to fellow students) their application essays to build community amongst their fellow students.

My money is my money and it’s my money to spend. I earned it. It’s mine.

Difficult. It ís an adjective I generally associate with my adolescent tantrums.

Every time I read an article about Sheryl Sandberg, leaning in, leaning back, and the choices that the most privileged people in America get to make, it leaves me feeling like there is a gigantic piece of the conversation missing.

I make lists, and then lose the note pads. I write REALLY IMPORTANT things on my hand, and then wash them off by accident. I rip off post-its full of bullet points from meetings and then chuck them away with my lunch rubbish.

I’m sure part of this is just a knee-jerk reaction from growing up in a big Mormon family in Utah as a tiny queer feminist and feeling out of place most of the time.