True Confessions Issue

I confess...

I loved The Real Housewives of Atlanta—and not in an ironic way. NeNe, come back!

I hate Twitter. I don’t want to know what half of America is thinking or doing every minute. It’s like everyone you meet having a CNN news crawl across their foreheads.

I don’t get nitrous oxide at the dentist because I worry about blurting out my deepest secrets under anesthesia.

I’m irrationally jealous of friends whose husbands fill up their gas tanks every week so they don’t have to get their hands dirty. Just thinking about it makes me want to stuff potatoes up their exhaust pipes.

Being a Kentucky Colonel makes me smile, not least of all because it makes my little brother so jealous. Is it any surprise I used to lock him out of the house when I was babysitting?

Justin Timberlake’s “SexyBack” is at the top of my Most Played iTunes list. My ringtone is Beyoncé’s “Single Ladies.” My emotional age is 12.

I think one of my life tasks is to rid myself of narcissism by the time I die. I’m not making much progress.

I never get enough birthday presents. (See above.)

Sometimes in yoga, I pretend to Om along with the class, but I’m really lip-syncing.

After spending three happy days on Hydrocodone for dental pain every six hours, I no longer judge Rush Limbaugh for his little substance-abuse problem.

I’m not getting any wiser as I get older. If I give you advice, do the opposite.