DareMe: You Suck. I Love You.

It is only recently that I finally became aware of the vast, cosmic awesomeness of life. For the spiritual people, you can call it a kundalini rising, or for those of you who think that’s some sort of Indian revolt or gluten-free bread, you can call it “coming into awareness.” So, when it came time to write my DareMe about something scary or haunting to stick with this issue’s theme, all I could think of was my last encounter with the scariest thing I had ever done in my life.

I did read and acknowledge all of your recent dare submissions; but no, it was not a midnight Ouija board session at the Ladd School (an abandoned mental hospital in Exeter) or skydiving, or even the nude bike ride around Block Island (Haven’t you figured it out that I do that on my own volition?). But, dun dun dun, I meditated. And so, like all living things, I grew and changed, and as a result, so did DareMe. All of my wounded, ignored and suppressed emotions rose to the surface and I was left with no choice but to face my fear of facing myself. Yes, I sat in silence and allowed myself to just be, and of course, like for most people, it was very, very challenging.

Since I am my own worst critic, I had to read my own hate mail in my head. It was horrible. “You’re a failure. Your articles are a failure. Even you hair is a failure. What are you doing with your life? Why aren’t you in graduate school like everyone else your age? Because you’re a failure, that’s why! You failed at love, patience, and humility. Your jokes suck, too.”

But instead of reacting to them, I just sat there, read and deleted my mental inbox. Then, to my surprise, after 20 minutes it was empty. I had no mail! All I had to do was just sit and be.

And so like myself growing and changing, so has DareMe. I propose a DareMe awakening. I need to put my energy into something with more positive energy. Why not a DareYou? So, I dare you to meditate. Find a place that brings you peace – maybe your living room or by the beach – sit on level ground with your spine straight, relax your body, and just breathe. Make sure your 21st century distractions are far, far away. As the thoughts arise, rather than react to them, allow them to pass through you. When your “you totally suck” thoughts arise, smile at them and send them loving energy. For a long time, I was a prisoner of fear, but meditation has helped me face my fears with mindfulness and compassion.

There are many places in Rhode Island that offer meditation classes to help guide you, such as the Providence Shambhala Center, Providence Zen Center, Rhode Island Meditation or even the MeetUp for Meditation on Meetup.com. So, I dare you to meditate, but more importantly, I dare you to face your fears so you can move forward spiritually and emotionally and live and love fully. You are awesome and I love you.

Yosefa Leora Kornwitz loves you. She is also a newly awakened writer and holistic food healer. You can contact her at yomotif@gmail.com and follow her at goagnome on instagram.

DareMe: Love In Chains

I have despised love ever since my engagement was called off over four years ago. Any date, except in the name of DareMe, I declined. I didn’t even RSVP to wedding invitations – they ended up as kindle. Men were no more than hairier friends and the first and only woman I dated left me for a beautiful blonde bombshell with a killer nine to five. I was manifesting Steve Martin from Father of the Bride, pushing every single eligible bachelor from my life because no one was good enough. I was a perpetual child having a temper tantrum. Everyone was stupid, and love was even stupider. I accepted my fate of being alone forever.

I eventually had to end my anti-wedding streak and attend my first cousin’s wedding in South Boston. He and I were never close and I only saw him once a year at Chanukah, but he insisted I go and asked if I would be the wedding photographer at the after party because it was going to be “too wild” to hire a professional. I agreed, but only if he paid the $300 to fix my camera and under strict agreement that if there were too many “wasted bros slobbering on my lens” I was allowed to leave guilt free.

“Not every guy is a schmuck or a douchebag, and just cause my boys are from a fraternity, wear baseball caps, and pop their collahs doesn’t mean their bros, aight?”

I rolled my eyes. “Are you gonna have red plastic cups at your wedding too?”

He sighed, “Well, we wanted tah have ‘em, ya know? But Target was out of red, so we got blue.”

So, anyway, he agreed to get my camera fixed, but only if I went to his friend’s of a friend’s camera shop in North Attleboro based out of his home. I wanted to kill him, not because he was sending me to some strange man’s house, but to a strange man’s house in North Attleboro. My cousin gave me the number to his camera fixing friend of a friend, Jacob, and I called him to set up an appointment.

I arrived just on time to his small white house with the sickest porch set-up I had ever seen. It was like a 90s music festival was perpetually happening on his front deck. Comfy tables, awesome lighting set up, and 90s grunge posters of Alice and Chains, Candlebox, Soundgarden, and Temple of the Dog to name a few. Not my scene, but Jacob ended up being a really cool guy and his long brown hair and faded tattoos made me feel at ease. I ended up chilling at his house while he fixed my camera and eventually told him about the wedding that I didn’t want to go to, my love strike, and the DareMe I had to write. It had to stick to the theme of weddings, but I didn’t want to put my face into the cake or get onstage and flash my breasts to my extended Jewish and Evangelical Christian family to be. Jacob’s eyes lit up. “I dare you to go have a good time, and fortunately for me your camera is too broken to fix in time. You can borrow mine. You just have to bring it back. I dare you.”

Now, Jacob was totally not my type, but his eyes were kind and I found the way his wrinkles shaped his face endearing. “Thanks. I appreciate it and I promise I’ll try to have fun.”

He laughed, handed back my camera and said, “To quote Bob Marley, ‘Don’t analyze. Love hard when there is love to be had.’ Go have fun at the wedding. Maybe you will meet a nice Goyim,” he winked.

So, the wedding ended up being horrible. I’ll spare you the details, but I survived thanks to extra dirty martinis and my pack of pre-moistened cleaning wipes for when one of the bros vomited down my leg and into my shoes. I ended up leaving mid after party and on the way home I got a call from Jacob. “I had a feeling you wouldn’t make it through the wedding. I just started cooking dinner and would love for you to join me. Maybe afterward we could play beer pong?”

I dropped the cup of olives I stole from the bar while almost chocking on the three that were in my mouth “Beer pong?!”

“I’m just joking, silly!” Thank God. So far, I have had six dinners with Jacob and zero beer pong sessions. Maybe I am being too ambitious or maybe my brain has been reset from all of that heavy metal that I have been listening to, but I think my spell has been broken.

Yosefa Leora Kornwitz is a comedy writer born and bred in Rhode Island. She can be contacted at yomotif@gmail.com. Follow her at @goagnome on Twitter.




code: bridal-2013

DareMe: SPF Ketchup

Ahhh. Today was a beautiful almost summer day in Rhode Island! The sun was shining, people were smiling, and the rest of them were stuck in beach traffic. For the lucky few who made it out to the beach before the sun went down, I just have to say – if you were in the crowd taking pictures of the following, would you pretty please send them to me?

An anonymous follower of “DareMe” wrote me an email as follows: “Go to the beach and walk around covered in ketchup.” Now, I see the hilarity in that (sort of), so I decided to expand on that idea. I would try to convince people to willingly cover me and themselves in ketchup.

I arrived at Narragansett Beach with a towel, sunblock, and a large bottle of Heinz Tomato Ketchup and approached a man in a baseball cap lounging in his beach chair.

“Excuse me, sir. Could you put some sunblock on my back?” I had every intention of handing him the ketchup and trying to convince him to put it on my back, but he looked at me and winked.

“Of course. At your ripe age, it’s always good to use protection.” Talk about innuendos. I wanted to walk away, but my brain was churning and my plans quickly changed. I pulled out the sunblock and let him rub it in. “Why do you have a bottle of ketchup?” he snorted.

“Oh, I usually use it as a sunblock, but I already did my dose this morning while lying on my deck.”

“What were you wearing when you were in your ketchup?” he laughed. Uh. I ignored his question.

Anyway, it’s a really amazing antioxidant. The beta-carotene and lycopene in the tomatoes actually increase the skin’s ability to resist the effects of UV light and prevent prostate cancer.” This is actually true, but you have to eat it, not bask in it. He finally finished putting on the hundredth layer of sunblock.

“Really? Prostate cancer?” He spread his legs. “You can …” Before he could finish I reached down and grabbed the ketchup bottle.

“Here, I’ll put it on for you!”

“I was just kiddin’ …”

“And you have to keep it on for at least three hours.” He stood frozen and I quickly squirted the entire bottle all over his body and onto his hands. “Rub it into your face,” I demanded. Surprisingly, he obliged without a comeback. Within seconds, a crowd started to form and cell phones came out to snap pictures and record videos. I must have been laughing so hard on the inside that I didn’t notice the tall, leather-skinned woman with overly bleached blonde hair standing next to me.

“RICHARD!” (Of course his name was Dick.) “WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING!?” He didn’t respond. Her hands started waving around frantically. “WHY ARE YOU COVERED IN KETCHUP?! FIRST IT’S THE MONKEY, THEN IT’S THE RUSSIAN, NOW, KETCHUP?!” Oh God. I slowly backed away. “No, wait, wait, wait, Missy! Who are YOU?” I kept walking backward.

“I really have to go! My dog is in the car!” She must have had a dog and sympathized because she stopped talking. I turned around about to run like hell. “Oh, and Dick,” I yelled. “Good luck with your prostate!”

Yosefa Leora Kornwitz is a comedy writer born and bred in Rhode Island. She can be contacted at yomotif@gmail.com. Follow her at @goagnome on Instagram.

Milkshakes and Anchors

I thought it would be apropos to write a dare on tattoos for this issue. Seeing as I wanted to do a dare that didn’t involve spending money, I emailed local tattoo shops that sparked my interest, seeking a challenge. Few replied and I even got a few, “Nah, sorry” responses, so I took it upon myself to come up with something clever. What is free and has to do with both Rhode Island and tattoos? Bingo. I will get the Rhode Island red tattooed on my face! I mean, in theory, of course.

I gave myself a few hours to drive around the state to find small, hidden tattoo shops where I would try and convince the artist that I wanted a Rhode Island red hen, Rhode Island’s official state bird, on my face. I drew a rough sketch with the wings on my cheek bones and the head of the bird and its black beady eyes smack dab in the middle of my forehead. The first tattoo artist was a female and I showed her the picture with innocent enthusiasm. “So,” I said, “the anchor will sit on my nose with the hooks coming down forming a mustache.” She looked at me with a mixture of pity and shock. I sensed she didn’t want to hurt my feelings. “Well, it is a beautiful design. Why don’t we put it in your back instead?” I shook my head adamantly. “What about your leg? Or your arm?” I didn’t budge. Then my cell phone alarm went off and I pretended it was an important call and walked out surprisingly let down. I have gained a strange skill in the past few months of acting really, really serious about something so ridiculous that I sometimes trick myself into believing my absurdities. I’m sure she was relieved.

I approached the second tattoo shop with the same picture and the same attitude: ecstatic, as if getting a full facial tattoo of a bird was the greatest idea ever. “Your f*@#ing kidding, right?!” The artist slapped his beer gut and fondled his beard with a heavy sigh as if that was the funniest joke in the world. “Let me guess, you want a milkshake on your ass too?” He laughed even louder. My job was done here. Onto the next.

The third and final artist didn’t take my artistic vision seriously, at all. “No,” he said simply. I took my emergency bate of one hundred single one dollar bills and flashed them. “No. I don’t feel comfortable. I admire the audacity, but it’s just stupid.” He had a point. No arguing there. I thanked him and turned around and walked out. Seconds later I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned around to find a young girl with the sides of her head shaved and dyed bright blue. “I heard about your bird. The one you want on your face. I just got a tattoo gun in the mail and I need someone to practice on. I can’t do a bird yet, but what about an anchor?” She was just as excited as I was when I approached the tattoo artists. I didn’t have the heart to tell her I really wasn’t interested. “Maybe next time,” I said with a smile. She smiled back. “Here, take my number. I’ll be ready for the bird in a few months.” No matter how absurd your dream may be, if you keep pecking, it will come true.



“I dare you to go to the Doo-Nanny,” wrote my hillbilly POP/visionary folk art friends from Kentucky. For those who don’t know what it is, it’s a folk art festival in rural Alabama featuring the freakiest, funkiest and folkiest artists from the South.

The Doo-Nanny was only a few weeks away and I searched for a one-way flight to Alabama. I couldn’t find anyone to pick me up from the airport so I asked my friends from Kentucky. “We can get you in Nashville,” they said. “But you will have to carry the birds on your lap. Can you get there by Sunday at 9am?” It was Friday. “Yes!” I said and with that, I booked my flight to Nashville.

The InnerGalacticShack-O-llacc circus art car van was awaiting me at the airport. Their art car was covered in plastic toys, giant letters that spelled LOVE and ART and a front license plate that said “Jesus Loves Freaks.” People were crowding around the art car snapping photos and I scanned the crowd for my friends. “There’s Yooosefa!” cried Ruby Elvis Rose, my eight-year-old friend. We piled into the car with Ruby’s parents, C.M Laster and Grace Kelly, and began our 20-hour ride to Alabama.

The ride was going smoothly and we passed through the states with ease… until we hit Alabama. Both trailer tires popped and the car swayed back and forth as it scraped the road to a slow and treacherous halt. Ruby, the birds and I stayed put in the back of the car while her folks tried to fix the tires. Two men in a white truck pulled off the side of the highway and wandered over to help. Ruby looked at me with wide eyes. “He is wearing a Romney shirt!” she said shaking her finger. I’m not sure if I was more surprised by an adamant eight-year-old Democrat or an adamant eight-year-old Democrat from Kentucky.

Things were looking ok again until the rainstorm started and within minutes we were once again on the side of the highway. The cops eventually showed up after a car full of Pentecostals proved to be unhelpful. The next 20 minutes were both the best and most terrifying moment of my life. C.M Laster and I got a ride to Walmart with an officer who was driving 120 mph, blasting heavy metal music (‘Let the bodies hit the floor, let the bodies this the flooooooor!’) and texting.

“Am I scarin’ ya yet, darlin’?” he asked with a smile. His Southern charm was confusing, possibly degrading and slightly arousing. “Now, how many people you know can drive 150 miles n’ hour, stick their head out the winda’, point a gun and say ‘F*&$%$ YOUUU!” 

“Uh.” I said stupified. I didn’t want to spoil the moment by telling him I spent my entire life avoiding people like him. But I could see something sincere and genuine in this eyes that sparked a light within me. “That’s right!” he howled. “Welcome to Alabama!”

Check out the art car at lastersartshack.com

Photo Credit: C.M Laster


Yosefa Leora Kornwitz is a journalist based in Rhode Island. If you want to present her with a dare, she can be contacted at yomotif@gmail.com or at DareMe Yosefa on Facebook. She can also be followed at @goagnome on Instagram.

Dare Me: Homeless is a State of Mind

Rhode Islanders, you are all crazy. I am getting a lot of dares that involve reckless harm onto others, endangering my life to the point of almost dying, and doing things involving a bikini and snow. I am really happy that people are sending me dares, but can you please find something that wouldn’t make my parents ashamed of my epitaph?

This month’s dare was incredibly complex. I went to cover the Fetish Fair Fleamarket, which is the largest BDSM event in Providence, and my photographer dared me to be in the New Designers Fetish Fashion show. So, I did. I asked a clothing designer if she needed an extra model and to my luck she had an extra outfit; before I knew it, I was getting laced up, electrical taped and strapped in.

I did the catwalk, baring all I had to the audience, played with my pigtails and shook my booty. I knew in the back of my mind that this was not the dare I was meant to do this month (anyone could do what I had done) but I did it anyway. Later that night I checked my Facebook page to see if I had any other dares that seemed more inspiring. To my horror, I saw a comment that went something like this: “You’re so F$#&$! $%&#. Why don’t you do something good in this world? You’re just another #&$#$ girl in a consumerist world.” Blah blah blah. I can understand where this man was coming from but needless to say, I was shocked.

Now I realize that this man was probably not mentally sound, but I was determined to show him that I was a good person with good morals and do a dare that would help someone in need. I had been saving a hand written dare I received from an older gentleman at the Coffee Exchange and reread it. I dare you to donate so much blood you almost die. I dare you to throw away all of your mirrors. I dare you to tell your parents the truth. I dare you to take a homeless couple out on Valentine’s Day. I dare you to find me.

I hopped in my car, pulled out my gift certificate to IHOP, and drove around Providence… not to find this creeper, but to take a homeless couple out for a belated Valentine’s Day dinner. It did not take long until I found a younger looking man on the 95 off ramp holding up a sign. Assuming he was homeless, I rolled down my window. “Hey, sir, I don’t have any cash on me but would you like to come out to dinner with me? You can bring along a friend if you have one too.” Without responding, he turned towards a tree and yelled, “Julieanna! This lady’s gonna take us out to dinner. Hurry it up! Grab the dogs!”

“Oh, crap,” I thought, but at least I had some dog treats in the car. The four of them piled up in my hybrid and Julieanna shrieked, “Oh my gawwwsh! We’re ridin’ in a space craft!” She had long brown hair tucked into her oversized winter coat and wore a dirty pink skirt that went down to her feet. Her boyfriend Jud looked exactly like her, except he had on black jeans with his long johns showing and big brown boots. They were hitchhiking up from Tennessee to go to Montreal, even though both of them said they didn’t have a passport yet.

“We’re just sick of it here,” he said. “Just sick of it. Julieanna’s sick and we hear you can git better health care ‘n Canada.” Even though I knew they were right, I felt like an asteroid had just hit me in the heart. Jud grinned. “So let’s go eat sumthin’ before my stomach gits any louder!”

We drove to IHOP and left the dogs in the car. They both ordered a massive amount of pancakes with all types of toppings and had cup after cup of coffee. They told me about their lives in Tennessee and what it was like being on the road. Jud and Julieanna both struggled with mental illness, drug addiction and apparently a pancake addiction too.  It didn’t take long for me to realize that Julieanna was schizophrenic because her eyes kept darting over to the empty booth with a look of horror across her face like she had seen a ghost.

Jud patted her on the back affectionately, “She’s sick in the head. She sees things that aren’t there. But she’s real smart too, real smart.” I was surprised at how comfortable I felt around them, having lived in the south for four years, but also because they really did love each other. I have to admit I was a bit envious of their relationship. “So, what did you guys do on Valentine’s Day?” I asked. “Well, we was in Virginia hitchin’ our way up,” she said. “Jud got me another dog from some travelin’ kids we met and we cooked sum stew by a fire. It was real nice. And Jud gave me this.” She extended her hand out to show me a ring on her wedding finger, elbowing Jud in the side and looking lovingly into his eyes. “He asked me to marry him. We’ve been together for eight years.” Julieanna smiled.

“So, what did you do on Valentine’s Day?” Jud asked me. “Oh, nothing,” I said. “I got stood up, waited in a coffee shop for a few hours hoping he would call, but he didn’t, so I drove home.” “Do you live alone?”  Jud asked. “No, I live with my parents,” I answered. “I was working in New York, but moved back in a while ago after I got really sick and lost my job. I want to move soon, when I get the money. I don’t know where to go though.” I think he could hear the sadness in my voice even though I was trying to hide it. It wasn’t just the whole being stood up on Valentine’s Day either; I’ve been in a funk for a long time now.

“Cheer up,” Jud said, “and when we get to Montreal you should come out to stay with us.  You’re a nice lady, you know? We would love to have you in our home.” Hey, I was supposed to be the person helping them, not the other way around. “Thanks,” I said sullenly, knowing that I would never go and they would probably never make it across the border anyway. “Believe you can and you’re halfway there!” Jud cried, as he slammed his fist down on the table, making me jump. “Make a date of it!” “Okay,” I said with a nod. “And would ya smile more too?!” I nodded some more. “And for cryin’ out loud,” he continued, “you gotta’ make sure you give thanks to bein’ alive because you never know when you will wake up again!”

“Okay, okay, okay!” I shouted. “Fine. I get it. I know. It’s just hard to…” 

“Shhhh, I don’ wanna’ hear it,” he said. “No more serious talk. Now, ya see that drunken man standin’ by the door way? I dare you to go give him the biggest wedgie of his life!” Jud and Julieanna both toppled over with hysterical laughter, causing me to start laughing and snorting, which caused Jud and Julieanna to laugh even harder. We all just laughed until we couldn’t breathe anymore and for the first time in a long time I felt like a huge weight had been lifted off of my shoulders.

Yosefa Leora is a journalist based in Rhode Island. If you want to present her with a dare, she can be contacted at yomotif@gmail.com or at DareMe Yosefa on Facebook. She can also be followed at @goagnome on Instagram.

Disclaimer: The couple in the photograph are not the actual characters in the story. Neither of them are homeless or schizophrenic. They are however from Tennessee and madly in love.

Dare Me: The Cockroach

As you may or may not know, I’m currently asking readers to email me dares. This month I was dared to go on an OkCupid date and speak in third person only. Since it’s almost Valentines Day (and since I’m single), I thought it was most fitting.

I scanned the dating website for my culprit and found a perfect match. He was bald, in his mid 30s and wore thick black-rimmed glasses that sat uneven on his crooked nose. I messaged him a simple note: “Coffee Exchange. Providence. Friday at 6pm. Purple sweater, green boots. In corner.”

I headed over to the coffee shop an hour early to secure a corner seat and catch up on some people watching. As I scanned the room, I noticed a pair of thick, crooked glasses and a bald, slightly deformed head. In fact, everything about this guy seemed off; as I got closer, I became overwhelmed by his oddness and got butterflies in my stomach… like the kind you get when you’re in love. Just the sight of him ignited the weirdo in me. 

“Hi. She is Yosefa. Happy to meet you!” I extended my hand in gesture for a handshake but he took my hand in his and kissed it. “I’ve been waiting,” he said. “Would you like some tea?”

“You were waiting? But, she is an hour early…” Before I could finish the sentence, my date stood up and walked over to get me a cup, never questioning who “she” was.

There were papers covered back to front with illegible handwriting scattered all over the table and his brown, tattered briefcase lay on the floor half open exposing his book collection: Urban Insects and Arachnids: A Handbook of Urban Entomology; Mastering Astral Projection; The Love Poems of Rumi.

He returned looking satisfied. “Here, drink this,” he said. “It reduces the risk of esophageal cancer.” I smiled. “She loves tea. Yosefa’s favorite is Oolong tea. What’s yours?” I continued talking about tea in third person and he kept replying like I was speaking normally, never questioning me at all.

Twenty minutes passed and the conversation turned to our shared love of insects. “You know, I’m not exactly normal either,” he said with a smirk. “Duh,” I thought. He stood up abruptly and began to pull down his burgundy red corduroy pants. “I want to show you my cockroach.” He proceeded to pull down his pants, first revealing his solar system underwear and then his 12-inch cockroach tattoo.

“Wow! That’s amazing. She really likes it!” I exclaimed. He pulled his corduroys back up and tucked in the Einstein shirt with the rip in the armpit. “Yeah?” he countered with a grin. “He really likes you too.”

Yosefa Leora is a journalist based in Rhode Island. If you want to present her with a dare, she can be contacted at yomotif@gmail.com or at DareMe Yosefa on Facebook. She can also be followed at @goagnome on Instagram.

Photo Credit: Yosefa Leora

Unbuttoning a Buttoned-Up Lawyer

Welcome to a new, experiment in Motif, where readers can dare me to take on zany and bizarre tasks in Rhode Island. Readers gave an abundance of awesome dares to choose from this month, but my choice became clear last Friday.

I was at a house dance party, and things were getting pretty wild. The music was loud, the people were sweaty, and the ‘Gansetts were plentiful. At midnight a strange man in a business suit and clean-shaven face walked in. He immediately grabbed my attention and I approached him. “Hello,” he said hesitantly. “My name is Jeff. I snuck out of a wine and cheese party on the third floor for my law firm. This party seems more interesting, can I join you guys down here?”

“Of course you can!” I said. And then my curiosity kicked in. “What do you do at a law firm party anyway?”

“We eat and drink and talk lawyer stuff. It’s not your style. Trust me,” he explained. “But I dare you go to up there and make a scene!”

I laughed and then realized that one of our readers dared me to crash a house party and do something that would never be forgotten. This was my chance!

I looked at him, looked at the door, then looked back at him and his eyes widened. “Oh, no, no, no. I was just joking … ” but before he could finish the sentence, I was out the door and bolting up the stairs. Now, don’t ask me what the hell I was going to do. I had no idea. But as soon as I opened the door and saw a room full of men and women wearing clothes I only wear to funerals, I knew instinctively what had to be done.

Everyone was too engaged in their conversations to notice a sweaty, barefoot girl in a bright purple dress that was in no way appropriate for December. I stared down two men talking in the corner and cradling their wine glasses. I approached the more timid looking one, made eye contact, grabbed his baby-blue, button-down collared shirt and ripped it open revealing his chest hair. I took a step back, giving him a split second to assess the damage. Unsatisfied, I spit into my hands, slapped them together, and then tousled his hair until he looked decent, maybe even sexy. I then took another step back, said, “Now, that’s better!” and walked out.

Days passed and I didn’t think about what happened, perhaps because I wasn’t sure if it really had happened. But on the third day, I received a text message from an unknown number. “Hey, this is Jeff, the lawyer that crashed your party. I had a really awesome time. Oh, and you know my coworker whose shirt you ripped open? He wanted me to tell you that was the best moment of his life.”

Check! Dare one complete.

Yosefa Leora Kornwitz is a journalist based in Rhode Island. If you want to present her with a dare, she can be contacted at yomotif@gmail.com or at DareMe Yosefa on Facebook. She can also be followed at @goagnome on Instagram.