Dear Starbucks, I have a confession . . . I’m only into you for one thing.
Dear Starbucks, I have a confession . . . I’m only into you for one thing.
Call me pathetic, but this little crumb of friendship success felt like a breakthrough.
But by the second week of most diets, I want someone to hit me in the head with a frying pan—preferably one that has just fried up a dozen crisp slices of bacon.
As I sat in my kitchen on New Years Day, I realized that for years I’d repeated this maladaptive annual cycle as if failure, guilt and self-loathing were my resolutions themselves.