Only in America does a friendly substitute teacher with a mountain of medical debt spend her nights serving summonses to other desperate people like me.
My thankless, bizarre job made me feel like I’d be more valued if I just died at my desk and gifted them my corpse.
I was raising two young kids after my husband died, taking any writing gig I could. My 40 novels about dragons and exploding creepers helped connect us more than I ever imagined.
As a women’s studies major and Very Serious Journalist, I thought I had nothing to learn from people who obsessed over expensive children’s toys. I couldn’t have been more...
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