The heart of cynicism is disappointed idealism, which can always be renewed.

I have always been single. I’m not particularly bothered by this fact.

But the plan changed, and it no longer mattered what was intended.

The first day after I moved out of my parents’ house, I dyed my hair black and blue and chopped it off to my chin.

I am immersed in a culture that holds the predisposed belief that I am not healthy, despite the fact that I workout nearly everyday and eat a healthy.

I’m the type of person who takes his eggs early in the morning.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve practiced a habit that a friend once named “threading.”

I’m not proud to say it, but I saw “50 Shades of Grey” (and before you get upset, I made proper amends for feeding into the franchise). I didn’t go into it with high expectations.

A crowd of high school kids swarms in the door of the bagel place, and my first instinct is to cringe.

It’s true: I’ve never been much of a “birthday person.” When I was younger, I so dreaded hosting birthday parties that I often wished I often was a twin so I could at least share the party and avoid being the sole center of attention.