Some of us, in the heat of a break-up in our 20s, may have deleted the electronic folder that held all of our writing in a hysterical, bleary-eyed dive into self-destructive behavior. We thus crafted much bigger regrets than a fleeting screamfest of a “relationship” — one that resulted in the accidental destruction of more than one VCR. (It can really throw a gal off-balance to walk around wearing a dildo.) Yet the disappearance of all that writing also provides, frankly, a relief, and permits a mercifully less-specific (and undocumentable) remorse about being so honest at that tender... More >>>