After a prenatal yoga class this past winter, two other pregnant women and I started talking about how we craved milk all the time. This was gross, we agreed.

Look, I know you want to see Hamilton. And I know tickets are impossible to get unless you’re willing to spend thousands of your hard-earned dollars. And I know you were sort of friendly with Audra McDonald in the early 2000s after doing that one episode of SVU together. And I know you haven’t really spoken to her…

I come back from the bathroom, and she’s leafing through my Quran.

I never thought I would be one to question my personal level of devotion to my friends, particularly those of the girl variety. I am a champion of all the best female empowerment mantras, known to shout “uteruses before duderuses” or “Venus before penis” at the emotional peak of any and all femininity-fueled moments,…

When I was growing up, there was nothing better than when school was canceled for a snow day. It didn’t just mean no school; it was bigger than that. Snow was the universe’s way of saying, “Shhh, no more human ac­tivities, no cars, hush now, earth, settle down.” Snow just kindly smothers the world at large, isolating…

On Saturday morning, Ben Carson greeted and thanked a few of his remaining campaign volunteers in his Manchester, New Hampshire headquarters. Jezebel was not allowed to witness that meeting, because the space had “reached capacity,” but we were permitted to wait in the front hallway, where Carson and his wife, Candy,…

Earlier this week, two of America’s former sweethearts, Reese Witherspoon and Meg Ryan, were spotted leaving an office building at the same time. To the best of my knowledge, the women have never been photographed together out in the wild—so the image isn’t entirely devoid of significance. But seeing them didn’t…

Scott Eastwood is a boring, handsome, 29-year-old who is famous for being the son of Clint Eastwood. Brody Jenner is a boring, handsome, 32-year-old who is famous for being the son of Caitlyn Jenner. I was unaware of their friendship until last night, when Eastwood posted this photo on Instagram:

There are really just two kinds of relationships: One where you trust someone, and one where you don’t. Of course, just because there’s trust doesn’t mean the relationship will work out, but if there isn’t, it’s almost guaranteed to fail.

On a hot August day on the campus of a small school in the hills of Santa Barbara, I met the person who would become my best friend.

On Wednesday afternoon, Stefani Germanotta (her fans call her Lady Gaga) posted a selfie to her Instagram profile in which she is being kissed on the cheek by John Travolta, the Oscar-nominated prisoner of Scientology.

What constitutes a great friend? One who tells you the whole brutal truth and nothing but, or one who tells you “the truth”—a softened up, dialed-back version of things tailored specifically to your threshold for reality and/or need for reassurance?

Recently, a reader emailed the Jezebel tips address with a highly relatable question.

A rabbit jerks his head up, half-eaten carrot instantly forgotten. A squalling toddler quiets mid-scream, his gaze locked on the clear blue sky. A queen bee abandons her hive, feeling the pull of something stronger. “J. Law is back!” the breeze whispers. “J. Law is back!” the cockroaches sing. And the world comes…

Mindy Kaling’s character on The Mindy Project has had some trouble making friends. Evidently, so has Mindy Kaling.

I met Leah on the first day of college in the fall of 2003, playing two truths and a lie, a forced ice-breaker game for my entire floor that only served to exacerbate my social anxiety. In the game, you put forth three facts about yourself, one of which is false, and everyone is supposed to figure out which it is.

Arizona: You are still alive and happy. We’re dancing to A Tribe Called Quest in your living room. It’s 2001. We’re seniors in college. You are my best friend. I’m too young and naïve to imagine either of us will ever be gone.

This week's episode of Girls was a marvel, offering a perfect snapshot of the horror of the rebound date, and more importantly, reviving the age-old question of whether you can ever really be "friends" with an ex. On the latter quandary, I say the jury is still out.