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Author Hollis Gillespie

  • Hollis Gillespie

    Editorial Contributor

    Hollis Gillespie is a humorist, syndicated columnist, NPR commentator, and top-selling author. She has been profiled in Marie Claire, Bust, Writer’s Digest, and Entertainment Weekly. Her television appearances include The Tonight Show with Jay Leno, TBS Storyline, Monica Kaufman’s Closeups, Good Day Atlanta, and TV Land. Her radio commentaries appear regularly on National Public Radio and Georgia Public Broadcasting. In 2004, Writer’s Digest named Gillespie a “Breakout Author of the Year.” The film rights to her first book, Bleachy-Haired Honky Bitch: Tales from a Bad Neighborhood, are currently under option with a major Hollywood studio. Her latest book is Trailer Trashed: My Dubious Efforts Toward Upward Mobility.

 

Twist and Shout

The hipster waiter keeps calling me “dear,” and it bugs the hell out of me. He’s so young that if I were twice his age, I still wouldn’t be that old. Cut the "dear" crap! I want to shout. I’m a strong, successful woman! Read More

Heartbreak on deck

I’m a sucker for puppies. But I’m not as bad as my friend Kate, who stopped traffic on I-75 in order to scoot a possum to safety from the center lane. To Kate, even possums are puppies. I get it. Read More

Fill in the Blanks

I have chest pains. I’m serious. I am five minutes away from calling an ambulance. The only thing stopping me is that my friend Milt recently called an ambulance because he felt chest pains, and it turned out he was having a panic attack, which is not life-threatening but just as expensive. Read More

Death Becomes Her

I have died five times today already—horribly—and always my corpse has been stumbled upon by my child. This is thanks to my friend Grant Henry, who lately has taken to creating morbid scenarios of my demise during our conversations. Read More

Sticks and Stones

I’m better at breaking arms than legs. Of the four arms I have broken, one belonged to a college boyfriend, who had the misfortune of accepting a ride to class from me one morning. His arm was not the only thing that broke in the ensuing car accident. His head hurtled pretty hard into my windshield too, which cracked like an antique teacup—my windshield, not his head. His head fared fine. Read More

My Hidden History

I thank god every day for the fact that I have no recorded history before the age of twenty-nine. I consider it a huge plus. And when I say “recorded” history, I mean the kind you can Google. Read More

Keep Your Dreams to Yourself . . .

Whatever you do, don’t describe your dreams to me. I hate that. I will sprain my sockets trying to suppress my eye rolls. I will get lockjaw trying to stifle my yawns. I’d rather sit through seventy homicide autopsies than listen to someone describe how they dreamed they were naked in their high school hallway with nothing to hide behind but a dry washcloth. Read More

Scared Grateful

When I was a kid, I feared the apocalypse. But religion just angered my mother. When the pasty neighborhood Pentecostals approached us on the sidewalk, extending their damp pamphlets and their harbingers of doom, my mother would stick her arm out traffic-cop style and shout, “Get back!,” like she was warding off an attack by bears. Read More

Eating Your Words

It’s part of the writer’s profession to endure public flagellation and mortification fairly regularly. One time I was asked to present at a book festival in North Carolina, only to arrive and find I’d been typoed off the agenda, so the only audience members at my book signing were two prisoners on day pass from the local penitentiary. Read More

Dog Days

I’m fond of telling people that my friend Lary has taxidermied bums in his basement, but that is an exaggeration. There is just the one taxidermied cat, and it isn’t so much taxidermied as simply mummified—and even that is not a proven fact, but I don’t see how the case could be otherwise. Read More