My story today is about the way we can put our trust in perfect strangers - like our hair stylists.

Maralyn insisted on maintaining the often-seen short spiky hairdo that older woman gravitated toward when they give up. She resisted Hannah’s efforts to soften her face with another style. Hannah regretted missing out on the chance to dye all those spikes Barbie pink.

What is it about certain strangers that makes us feel like we can trust them? Tell me in the comments.

That’s my story. Tell me one of yours.

My story today revolves around something most of us thoroughly enjoy – sleep. But what if you didn't need to sleep anymore. How would you spend that extra time in your day?

Stella had started a late-night crafting group and she kept sending me pictures of hip homemade wreaths, hand-stamped stationary and throw pillows with inappropriate phrases stitched on them. Her pictures came at all hours of the night and there were clusters of them waiting for my attention in the morning.

What did you dream of last night? Tell me in the comments.

That’s my story. Tell me one of yours.

My story today is set in the same way all parents tell stories to their children: With certain details omitted. What you want your children to know and what actually happened are two completely separate stories:

Of course, there is a flip side to this story: One of perpetual light in which the birthrate dropped a bit and people were less likely to have one-night stands when faced with a potential lover in the bright accusing light of day outside a bar. But I’ve never met someone from the opposite side of the world to tell me that story. And I really don’t want to tell my children about one-night stands so close to bedtime. Sex education should take place in the daylight.

Listen to Once Upon a Midnight Summer and tell me what you would change about your life if it was suddenly left in darkness.

That’s my story. Tell me one of yours.

Sometimes a story buzzes around in my head for a while before I am able to get it right — this is certainly the case with my story for today. I like to ask people what their first memories are of. For some people it's just a fleeting impression and for others it is in amazing clarity with lots of details.

Christine’s first memory was a flood of orange juice. The cascading fall of it as it slipped out of her grasp and spread into a large puddle in front of the fridge, the pulpy bits lodging themselves between her toes. Why mom kept it in that glass pitcher, she never thought to ask. Her mother was the one who found Christine standing in the juice puddle, and she lifted her onto the sink counter to wash her ankles and toes with warm water.

Listen to A Brilliant Shade of Blue. And tell me what you would think about if you had the time to sit still with your own thoughts.

That’s my story. Tell me one of yours.

My story today is a little more personal than most of my others, because the mother in the story is based on my own mother — a woman I greatly respect, admire and love.

Children retain so many memories of their parents, but only in the role of parents. So few of us get to know the person outside of the parental role — the coworker, the friend, the person they were before becoming a parent.

My Mother was still waiting. Sitting at the kitchen table with a snack for us, or to take our wet jackets and umbrellas. Sometimes even in the same spot we had left her at breakfast. In my child’s mind she was always waiting for me there – her life at a standstill when I left the room. She is waiting now. For the rain to stop and her grandson to wake from his nap. And maybe even for me.

Listen to: When It's Enough.

That’s my story. Tell me one of yours.

A familiar, soft buzzing noise is at the heart of my story.

It's amazing how that little buzz/ping/beep has integrated into our days. There is the phantom buzz where you think you heard your phone, but aren't sure. And there is even the buzz check where you haven't heard a buzz in so long, you have to check your battery.

But what if there was just silence? Imagine that your phone stopped talking to you.

There was once a time when he had to corral people and demand they stack their phones in the center of the conference table just to keep their attention for the 15-minute meeting. He thought of how they would look now – a tower of empty boxes.

Listen to: The Virus Is the Cure.

That’s my story. Tell me one of yours.

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My story today focuses on the idea that we all have very different childhoods. But what if yours was so unusual, you had to hide it? In The Separated Life of Annie Good, we meet a woman who lies about the abnormality of her upbringing because the lie is easier to explain. Even to her boyfriend:

In her defense, she had spent the first four weeks of their relationship believing it would never work out between them. He was, after all, a calculus major. During their first date he had tried to start conversations with her about social economics and politics before they were able to settle on classic cinema as a mutually satisfying topic. By the time she had realized her miscalculation on his viability as a long-term boyfriend and started believing in his potential, it seemed too late to delve into childhood issues.

Abnormal is the new normal.

That’s my story. Tell me one of yours.

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In my story today, we take a look at the repercussions of our final words. Some people claim that if they could repeat their lives, they wouldn't change a thing. That can't be true — just think of all the heartache and pain that you could save yourself if you could relive your life.

But what if you truly couldn't make any changes? How would you feel about being stuck in an endless loop of living and déjà vu and memories?

The next afternoon...he saw the few words he had scribbled on the crinkly brown paper bag:

Your life is a repeat and you have to go through it all again. You’re not crazy, Gerald. Just drunk.

Gerald sat there on the floor, holding the cracked words from his paper bag confession and wondering about the sanity of a drunken mind. Drunks were always honest, he thought, although they might not always make sense. And it was this reasoning that lead Gerald to believe himself.

Enjoy today's story: The Repetition of an Unlived Life.

That’s my story. Tell me one of yours.

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My story today is a bit darker than usual.

Today's story, After the Kidnapping, is a single-person perspective from a woman trying to deal with a traumatic event in her life, but it's hard for her to keep all her thoughts straight.

I stole the neighbor’s cat on the second move. He was a friendly, scrawny guy who sat on the porch of my parent’s house always in the sunshine. He spent all his days outside of his own home — three doors down from my parents — it was filled with the barking of little yappy dogs.

It's a jumble of emotions, but a story that takes surprisingly few words to tell.

That’s my story. Tell me one of yours.

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My story today includes a little motherly advice.

We are all familiar with motherly advice — that nagging (and usually correct) voice in our heads. In today's story — I Should Have Peed Before I Left — we hear advice on common issues, like cleaning:

Alyssa was standing naked in her kitchen admiring her clean floors. She had mopped them when she first moved in, but this was her first real chance to give them a thorough scrubbing. Alyssa had woken earlier than usual that Sunday, and had scoured her new apartment. As the faux tile floor dried, Alyssa walked into her beige-on-white bathroom to freshen up before putting her clothes back on.

The wisdom of our parents spans across all topics, including love. We just have to learn to listen. Tell me your favorite bit of motherly advice in the comments section.

That’s my story. Tell me one of yours.

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