Lisa J. Mogilanski

Twenty-One Years Young

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Twenty-one, for me, doesn’t mean much; but sitting here on the cusp of adulthood, I can’t help but be apprehensive.

Give Me a Head With Hair

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But, broadly speaking, self-acceptance is not my style—I prefer slowly and painfully to analyze (and hopefully eliminate) my flaws.

Don’t Worry, Be Unhappy

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Does this relationship between intelligence and misery hold? Statistical evidence suggests otherwise: I.Q. and happiness appear to vary together. Statistics can be powerful, and it is generally irresponsible to ignore them. But when they contradict the conclusion that you’re trying to establish, I recommend pointing out that rogue and lackadaisical econometricians can get up to all sorts of funny business, like forgetting to use heteroskedasticity-robust standard errors (the nerve of some people).

Swinging for the Fences

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I was five years old when I experienced heartbreak for the first time.

Politics à la Mode

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Because the question of who will govern best is murky, we often avoid asking it outright.

Prune Danish in Dixie

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In part that’s because, for me, the city’s a little soiled by the routine of everyday life. But it’s also because the historical dust has little time to settle before it’s kicked up by pedestrians and cabs in the conversion of present to future.

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Sic Transit Gloria

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I remind myself that I’m not dead yet—one day I’ll see the world, or maybe Hoboken. But as time dissolves behind me, it feels odd that I’m not sorry to see it go.