My last hidden thing.

This’ll be heavy. strap in or fuck off.

I don’t divulge my childhood and when people press too hard, I just make something up.

The truth about my childhood sits in the basment of my heart. I visualise it as a great gray mass I have tucked away, living in fear someone with find out.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~Some of the following might be unsettling to some readers because of themes of animal cruelty and child abuse. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Places are unnamed to protect my privacy from those who don’t know me.

This is my story of how fundamentalist Christianity and home schooling can be used to support and hide abuse in america. I’m one of many, many people who’ve gone through this. I am not an Isolated incident.

this is an american problem

I’m the same age my mother was when I left home. I think about that a lot. It’s young.

I want to say that maybe in the begining , my mother and the man she married were good people. Okay people. Crazy, but ok. That’s likely untrue.

One day my mother(a woman I knew only as a white-snakeesque miniskirt and the smell of chow-mein) showed up and my grandmothers house and took me to an apartment/trailer. My mother had had me at 15 and her mother raised me.(this is the story. I have doubts) My mother was the only person in our family to have gotten knocked up in high-school and I’m sure her parents were thrilled. Way to break that record,gurl.

My grandmother begged, I screamed and cried, and I guess my mother made threats that Gramma’d never see me again if she didn’t go along with it.

I don’t know what month the day was in, but I know my mom married this guy she’d just met a few week later in the summer. I still remember the photo, taken by I believe my moms’ friend. A Polaroid of a short, thin blonde woman in a white dress with an ice Cream cone from a street-vendor and a blond boy, short in pink pants. (I’d later scratch his eyes out of the picture in rage, but that was years later also, I don’t remember doing it, but I was blamed and beaten for it ) M pinched me HARD on the thigh the first day we met. My mother said I had to obey him, this man I’d never met. He drove a small, loud car in an obnoxious red. He had a poodle named “beu” that shit all over and snapped at me.My grandfather hated him, and the car, and insisted he sell it and take one of theirs. I only know this through my grandfather’s tendency to relay loudly what a tit he was. At this point, I should have been in preschool. I was not. I’d learned to read by around three, according to my grandparents. I WANTED to be in school so bad I could feel it. I went a few days and I was told I bit someone and This was the last time I was in a classroom until I was 12. ( waait. I tested in a classroom once a year.)

I remember sitting next to PeVe amps in loud bars as my mom and her band played . A guy named Brad (I think he died and for a long time, I thought he was my father) took care of me, and gave me a stuffed bear I named, obviously “brad” . I have foggy memories of physical pain at night, and I start seeing things in my closet, dead people, .. things. I started wetting the bed, and being spanked every day for it. This didn’t stop for literally years, although I did stop with the bed. I still see things In the shadows.

One night my mom and M came to pick me up from my grandparents home,teary and loud saying they’d been “saved. They stop dressing like normal 21 year old kids and more like ..they’re in a cult. This begins the end of normal. I remember being baptised in some lake sometime after this, I bit the pastor and mom hit me for the first time. I really don’t know why these two people took me to live with them, looking back. what was the point? Why raise a kid you don’t want? In “89, my halfbrother showed up, my half sister a little bit later. Here’s where shit gets weird. The Parents join some fundamentalist church with no instruments and women and men set separate, the women are all covered and dower. I guess they take it all to heart, because the church is all about “breaking your kid’s will”. They get obsessed with James Dobson and John R Rice.

The spanking turns to beating. Beating for being slow. For being rebellious. messy. not “honoring my father”. Lying. being a sinner I don’t remember playing with toys, being hugged by them, there was nothing positive. I do chores, read the bible. I wash diapers in a toilet. cloth diapers in a toilet. Fuck, like.. why tho? My mother hits me constantly . She’s fat in a way that looks like over-risen dough, if that dough had pendulous tits.

At 4:30 every day, the angel of depression sets in, and while she’s always worse at 4:30(I call it my witching hour) she never left. She’s my oldest friend, i guess, If i can be fucking dark for a minute.

I have memories of good days, trees and runnning. I swing for hours , feeling the wind and I remember praying to anyone who wasnt my parents god to save me. my grandparents take me often enough to keep me safe and normal.There’s so much I could pack in, but I’m trying to give you the basics.

I’m being home schooled in all this chaos.No one is teaching me, so I read and do what I’m supposed to do because, I don’t even remember, because it made me happy? They used Rod and Staff. check that shit out f you wanna see the shittiest creationism dumbed up watery tripe ever. I had grandparents making sure this didn’t stick, thank god. I spent all my early childhood, till maybe 12, alone. I’m social, so that was a hell alone.

I wake up to beatings for made-up mistakes. My Mothers husband beats me when she’s done. The other things that happen leave me with constant UTI’s and I start to break apart inside, into hard, sharp bits of hate. When my mom’s church friends ask if I’m okay, my mother tells them I’m “wicked.” I’m stubborn. No one in the church ever asks about the bruises. I wanted to die.

I know this is when I started to crack. At nine I took a whole bottle of Aspirin, hoping to die. I didn’t. on finding out, my mother pulls both siblings into see how”wicked” I am. she doesn’t take me to the hospital., but instead drags me along with “her Kids” to get them a movie. I remember that it was 2 pm and Rush Limbaugh was on. I remember the pain of knowing she didn’t care, and how confusing it was. I wasn’t set up to succeed. I brought tiny gifts, brushed her hair, bought little things from the bodega. I cleaned more. At one point the skin flaked off my hands from bleach. She ALWAYS punished me violently no matter what I did. Years go by like this. I’ve been sneeking out at night, doing what I want, going where I please. Cities can save your life.I started running away, and I always get dragged back.

My mother could convince anyone anyone that she was charming.she’d be sweet to me in public, when the three of us were all out.When people on the street once complemented my freckles and curly hair (to my great shock) my mother said, Oh That one??? She liked to tell people her little blonde kids were hers, and I was “watching them”. I was terrified of that face she wore like wolfs teeth.

My parents bounce from church to church because my mother’s husband thinks they’re all too “liberal.” I once went to some sort of fundy rally all the way in Gary Indiana.One massive colossem filled with shaved white men,riled up over a man talking, then erupting in that straight arm gesture we all know sure as fuck doesnt mean “hi”. I was terrified to go to the bathroom alone. years go by like this.

At home on good days I did all the chores. dishes. sweep. clean diapers. if I finished my work I had to “report to her!” this involved getting on my knees like I was bowing. she prided herself on the punishment instrumnets she broke over me, all in the name of God.Here’s the thing. She knew it nothing to do with god. you know when someone’s beating you for enjoyment. I’m angry writing this. When I think of her, I see that decaying chair with some god shit and a “punishment item”stuffed in the cushions.

Day after day after day. work. My mother just sat. all day. sat. drank. read far-right literature.I start to rebel for real at this point. I KNOW from being around normal people that that is is INSANE . Still to this day, I work fast, expecting that timer to ding.

I became very difficult, truly. they beat me, I ran away, stole shit. I started trouble hoping to attract cps.

As an adult, it’s all too easy to look back and see that they were fanatics. I think my stepfather craved control, and believed it was ” the End Times” . My mother suffered from schizophrenia. They were both cruel, and believed they were doing “gods” will.

Through all this, I’m taught at home so no one can see me. Thank god, there’s state testing and I’m actually really fucking smart, because I managed to learn in utter chaos. I’ve been told that complaining about “gods punishment’ is a sin. it’s at this point I start to believe to myself that this is no god, and while I can fake believing to survive,I know no god does this. I had no childhood, except when I was at my grandparents who kept me in programmes, dance, took me to anything they could. I couldn’t make friends because I was too angry, to weird.

My grandparents are my only salvation, because they saw bruises and somehow force themselves into my mom’s house over and over, calling CPS, begging someone to check. Cps is pointless, because they put me upstairs and the the kids were basically fine.

Horrible things happened when someone intervened. People don’t think about what happens to those kids when cps gets called But “doesn’t find anything”.By the time I was 11, I had boils all over my butt from infected sores. My legs were bruised from being beaten, from my legs down to my butt. I was malnourished. I’d had mumps because my mother didn’t vaccinate. Between my schoolwork and all her housework, I barely slept. I took to dialling 911 constantly, almost compulsively, hoping they’d show up. It’s worth noting that “Their kids” were fine. I adored my brother and put myself in between him and everything. My sister, the undeniable favourite, went out of her way to get me in trouble then watch. I hated her. Dance is saving my life at this point. I beat my feel against the floor too hard and tried to imagine my life I’d have when I grew up.

These idiots start hording for Y2K. Guns. Rice. dried meat. It’s an obsession because they are the kind of fundies obsessed with politics and the end times. Theres horded food and rats everywhere. There’s books so high in my little room that My Grandfather grabs my father by the collar and throws him, asking if they’re trying to kill me.

I started bleeding through my tights after dance,when My grandmother picked me up.She made me tell her everything while my grandfather went to my moms husbands place and, I guess, tried to kill him. Grandpa suffered a heart attack, and in 1995 the left to live in Texas. I later found out that grandfather offered them several grand to let me go with them. it didn’t work. I lost a lot of time after that. I ran away a lot. I thought of killing my stepfather. I planned to run away. I planned . My grandparents filed to adopt me. they lost. My stepfather started to use cruelty to animals as a way to inspire me to obey. Beating me did nothing, I just let myself drift away, or I laughed. I’ve seen so many animals killed in cruel ways and I’ll never get it out of my head. Don’t know what was wrong with him, where this all came from. The same year, a pastor of a shitty little church my stepdad wanted to be a deacon in grabbed my little girl tit. He pretended it was an accident. I set a fire in his trashcan. I vandalized a few things. I don’t regret it. I’m Thirteen now. I’m in school because of a number of complex, boring things. I’ve planned my way out. I’m Rage. Rage in black jeans learning I’m queer. I start cutting. I go out into the night and scream when I’m in the hills of my grandparents place. The sneaking out is great, I guess the hate made me edgey,and cool people took me to shows and raves, and I was really safe among the weirdos.

I’m leaving out so much background noise, the stuff of life. writing this in a park , I almost delete this.Why Tell? because I’m freeing myself this way, as humiliated as I feel.

As my mother slipped more into mental illness, she stared to believe I was possessed. I belive I genuinely scared my mother, partially because I wouldn’t break, and also because I was strong and those nightmares never stopped, I never stopped seeing things.Today, I’ve embraced what I see, and I assure you, It’s notthe devil in me I can honestly say I’ve”had the devil cast out of me multiple times, because I was Rebelling. In the eyes of my family, I was everything the church warned against. a Pastor told me that in the bible times, I’d have been stoned”.My folks bounced from church to church, picking up crazy Ideas from every one of them. My mom got fat, got in bed, and basically never got out. she’d leave forever, see things and make up crazy shit. I don’t know where her Husband went half the time. my memory gets spotty. Walking throught my stepdads’s room one night, I find mine and my brothers baby books. Remember those? snapshots of potato looking babies and “babies first” whatever. Mine was days marked with “rebelious” “doesn’t listen” “not as sick as expected”. All the pages. All of them were hate.

When I look back at this, it feels surreal. My 14th ,year My mother and Her dude were off their rockers.I think the mess they’d created was catastrophic and they couldn’t deal.

Floundering. hording. they became Y2K horders with horder friends. Around 1999, they started to fall apart. The room filled with Y2k supplies filled with rats and They bought an old school bus for The End Of Days.They’d started talking about marrying me off when I was 13, and by this time , they’d lost me. My mother ends up hospitalised for schitzophrenia. in all this madness, I slip away.I left, built a few lives.

That’s my childhood. Religion as a weapon, constant attempts to break me down,horrible things no one needs to read. No love.

I didn’t come out of this right. I survived, and had to slowly crall towards fine.

to this day, I hate messes. Hording scares me. I jump when timers go off. I lve with constant anxiety and sudden, overwhelming sadness. I am Rebellious. the skin on my butt and back of my legs is scarred and tinged purple. I lived, though. plenty don’t. A word on Fundamentalism: This is a weapon of control. There’s no loving god in the doctrin.

This form of christianity renders women powerless. Governed.

“Let a woman learn in silence with all submissiveness I permit no woman to teach or have authority over a man; rather, she is to remain silent.”1 Timothy 2: 11-“

It’s a new day, Timothy, and I’ve come to tell you to fuck yourself.


There are two instances where I believe it’s totally acceptable to create or experience your own reality: one is your spiritual life, and the other is anytime you’re under the influence of hallucinogenic *medicines.

At all other points in time, Reality is the truth. Truth is based on facts.

We’re living in a world of our own creation, where facts are being twisted it is something utterly ridiculous, and a lot of times, I think we just go along believing them because we like the rhetoric. This is bullshit, friends.

Get the facts. Know them, remember the truth and hold the truth inside your soul.

Y’know.. Don’t believe the hype, to quote Public Enemy.

Right now the American government is attempting to create its own reality. It’s attempting to dictate the news. There’s a laundry list of things happening right now, and I’m not going to go into them, because that’s not my point right now.

We must continue to live in reality.


Be rational.

Act with our hearts open and our eyes clear.

I personally believe it’s my job to be the candle burning in the window and the light in a dark place. I’m still figuring out what that means in the middle of all this mess.

I love you, whoever you are, Wherever You Are.

Happy solstice. Remember to turn your face to the sun like a flower perhaps literally, but definitely figuratively.

* you’re not going to catch me referring to psychedelics or marijuana as drugs at any point in this blog.

Somewhere over Greenland.

The soul of humanity lies in quiet shadows of sadness in old mens eyes, so easily brighted by acknowledging what hides behind them. There’s softer thoughts than you’d expect, tucked away.

It lives in silent knowledge of other’s wounds.

It takes me by surprise on long flights, when everyone else sleeps and I stare at our shared moment, contained by a (possibly) decade-old metal tube somewhere over Greenland.

I’d like to think there is a great web of deities, all of different viewpoints preserving us, ever so slightly. My greatest fear is that we only have ourselves.

Humanity’s soul lives, planted in us all.

It thrives in kindness.

Please, let it thrive.


I’m doing something I never do.

The  sun cuts through half-open blinds, and the not-yet setting light rays hits my seedlings,(or whatever you call plants that aren’t just sprouted , but too.. wobbly to really be plants) and  my bike,out on the patio. The torn-off fronts of craft coffee bags are tossed around me, and I’m trying to think of how to decoupage them onto the coffee table I’ve been covering for over a year. It’s nearly finished. Mr. Robot is on; I Remember  hearing  Pop Culture happy hour talk about it while I worked out at my old Gym in San Jose. I think that means this show came out in 2015?  It’s good so far. IMG_20180509_182340.jpg

I never watch anything new alone, because it almost feels meaningless to do so, somehow. I’d rather re-watch, but then I end up with pop-culture FOMO. I don’t sit on our couch at 7 pm and drink coffee and watch TV shows I haven’t watched before ,alone, as the light streams in through hanging blinds. I don’t do crafts instead of running errands, reading, or going to the gym, or any number of other things that keep my body and brain moving. I’m trying to slow down and be present.

I don’t think there’s even going to be enough time, somehow. I look at my husband and the sun and all the other brightest things I know, and think that.  I tell My husband this sometimes, Never enough. It’s possible he thinks I’m being morbid, but I hope he knows it’s just how deep down the love goes, how much deeper  I  go. Never enough time.

Maybe I’ll spend more time gluing hipster coffee bags to my coffee table.

Bruised fruit

Throughout my life,bruises have stood as shrines to the things I have loved that have hurt me.

I used to tear the skin off of my little kid shins while running through fence rows filled with blackberry vines, and then go home sticky with blood and joy, purple with juice and bruises.

I’ve had collections of Chartreuse and black bruises from falling down skateboarding, bruises from dancing, bruises from people who loved me, from people who hated me, uncomplicated bruises from sex that left me happy in the pit of myself  when I saw them. I’ve had several people’s share of the bruises from nights that are devoid of memories, nights when I’ve drunk so much I can’t remember details. Some of the things that have bruised me have almost destroyed my life.

The ones below are from trees. I’ve never been able to climb a tree and not be bruised like an apple. I will move my body ,coiling along the limbs and bruising my inner thighs, and slam my shins against the branches until they turn purple. I don’t know that it’s ever been comfortable to climb a tree, but it is joyful and invigorating and wild in a way often forgotten as an adult. So enjoy my bruises, because they will always be here, visible and vulgar.

Who invited all the damn crows

I dream almost every night, and for the past 3 months  I’ve tried with  a reasonable success rate to write down what happens when I’m asleep. This means that a black leather book lives beside my bed, it’s heart  filled with tiny scribbles of varying legibility, the messages running the gamut from seemingly symbol-Laden- probable gibberish, to complex storylines that feel like ghosts around the edges of my waking life. 
I write down my dreams in this book while my brain is in that hazy, San Francisco Fog State between asleep and awake  so I often have to go back and rewrite when fully awake. I feel like one’s brain starts to forget what happens in dream worlds very quickly so it’s important to do it as soon as possible.

Some patterns have emerged. I’ll highlight a few of them.

  • I dream about fully fleshed – out people with names. Sometimes I know them, often I don’t. 
  • I dream about sex  with women. (don’t we all) 
  • I dream in muted colours 
  • I have no idea what my face looks like, but I am very small, my hands remain the same: long, thin, and boney. Sometimes I am aware of my hair, which is long and in my way
  • I dream the same dreams often . Some of these dreams have been recurring since I was a child.
  • There are, so far as I can see, 5 worlds  that are connected to each other but don’t exist in the same time. They seem to be connected with a subway line of sorts that I can exit at any point, and the train is also a part of different times. My   real-life fascination with fashion seems to mean that my brain is created wardrobe as an identifier for time-period.The worlds are as follows :
  • An apartment where a number of people who reoccur in these dreams live. I don’t know how many floors it has but it seems endless and is More or less in the present. Sometimes there’s a fire pit in the common area. It’s very gray and always night. 
  • My own childhood time-period,during the late summer. 
  • A junkyard (I guess) but in a sort of soup ladle  shape, basically hanging in nothingness. 
  • The weird-ass Subway 
  • An old west construct.(this makes no sense because I have zero attachment to the Olde West, western films,ect. Even while I’m having the dream, I feel like “wtf is this corny ass shit”. 
  • Somewhere that that feels very old,  is slightly cold but not so cold that I am uncomfortable, and has no noticeable buildings. I have been inside structures on this world, but I couldn’t tell you what they look like from the outside. This is the one that bothers me because when I’m awake I feel like I remember it randomly and it makes me feel as that I’m out of time. It seems to be nothing  but trees and cliffs and I feel very very small, physically.

 Some other noticeable patterns are these:( at this point I’m going to point out that I practice lucid dreaming so I have decent amount of control in some situations. I’m not great at it and I’m off and lazy and don’t try to use it) 

  • So many crows, why all the crows. Who invited those  assholes. 
  • I am completely capable of using the internet in my dreams. Or at least my phone. I don’t see the face of it or anything but I know that I’m using it
  • Sometimes there are clear messages that are just one sentence. Sometimes these repeat themselves and they always make no sense within the context of what’s Happening
  • The most noticeable is this. I am helping people in my dreams. I am always helping people do something, find something,  get somewhere, Etc. Sometimes I know them, usually I don’t. And often times it’s something sad. I realized  this a long time ago: That often the dreams that I dream don’t feel like my own. They feel like something I am doing for someone else,  whether or not I want to.

I’ll write more about this later. But I wanted to get the outline of how I’m dreaming out there first before writing about this further here. This probably seems strange to you, all this listening to what happens when I’m asleep  but as long as I can remember I have been dreaming dreams that that are big and strange and pointed and recurring.

Its 6:30 right now and I’m slightly jet-lagged. I desperately want to grind coffee but I also don’t want to wake up Alvin who is so peacefully asleep in the other room. I think I’ll probably just poked my head in there and see if he’s on his phone or not and if he is, then all bets are off. I’m grinding. It’s the second day of the new year, and I’m wishing  that you’re having the best  start to your year  possible ,  and maybe, maybe, I’m dreaming about you.




Back on October 19th I had a surgery to correct a bunion.

Over the past couple of years, it’s become increasingly painful to wear shoes, and the swelling from the bunion caused reduced flexibility in my foot along with burning and aching if I stood for more than 3 hours. I couldn’t wear heels  at all.

Now, I deserve this bunion. It represents a handful years of dancing on feet bent in unnatural positions and more than a dozen years running back and forth serving assholes and stunners  like you drinks in strip-bars, gay clubs and dive-bars. I have insurance now so I, with urging, decided to have my foot-golum corrected.

There exist a  few different surgeries to correct bunions. One’s mostly cosmetic and involves shaving down the Sticky-out-y bit we generally associate with bunions. I didn’t have that one. In the  particular surgery I had ( called an Osteotomy) the surgeon  basically cuts your toe in half and pins it back together. Basically. I’m not a foot-scientist,nor am I going to deprive you of the joy of googling the procedure. I went into the whole thing thinking I’d be *healed up in about three weeks, and just go back to work. LOLNO

I won’t be able to go back to standing on my feet all day until around the 7th, per Doctors orders.

The surgery only took about an hour: They put me to sleep, did the damn thing and I woke up about sixty minutes later, said some weird stuff and went home with drugs.  I don’t remember the rest of the afternoon, but I know My girl Sarah showed up later that night, slightly toasted after drinks with her dad, I put myself to sleep, and woke up the next day in a world of fucking pain, as if someone had sawed  my food open and filled it with hot shards of murder. Sarah and I drank coffee. I called my DR. and informed him that the drugs for pain (hydrocodone) were not stopping the burning murder-shards. He changed the drugs.  I stayed on pain-killers for two weeks, at which point I was literally sick of them and dying (not literally) to poop normally again. By that point (around the 1st), the swelling was gross, but the pain had died down, I followed up with my foot-scientist and he told me to come back in two more weeks and put me in a flat shoe and told me I still couldn’t drive.My soul begins to atrophy along with my muscles. I read a lot, I whine more.  I do one hundred foot-bendy exercises a day.Two weeks after that, (about 4 days ago) I went to another follow-up, and He tells me I can’t wear normal shoes yet, nor can I drive. I disagree, and now I’m stuffing my still weird-shaped foot into the only 3 pairs of shoes that fit; Uggs (stfu, Uggs are fine, we can stop hating them now) a pair of platform Tevas, and my solitary pair of Nike trainers. I’m driving. The joint in my toe isn’t activated by the activity. In short, I’m very glad I did this. At this point, the pain in the joint is less than it was before the surgery and it’s noticeably smaller.  I can walk now, with mild discomfort and many breaks. There’s no way in hell I could put in even a six-hour work day at this point, though. My doctor’s conservative estimate of my going back to work on the 7th-ish is totally valid. If you need bunion surgery, get it. Yes, it takes over a month to recover from: Admittedly, it hurts quite a lot while healing, but there’s a rod holding my Growing-back-together toe in place, FFS. The worst part of the whole thing is the solitude: The sitting with myself, the house, every day. The not being able to really go anywhere alone. That’s my problem . I can’t sit still or in stillness, but I learned to do so.

Alvin, if you’re reading this… I couldn’t have done this without you. Literally. Thankyouthankyou and I’m sorry I’ve been a whiney dick. You’re everything. A Bunn-ion, even.

My ass is asleep, you guys.


*heel pun here.

Not your sacred Sad-girl.


My generation seems to hold its sadness sacred and romantic. I’m one of those Millennials whose adolescence held awkward court in the early 00’s.

We spent our teen years with Fallout Boy and As I lay Dying and in basements of our grandparents homes with Bob Dylan and Quiet Riot on Vinyl and in my case, hiding behind my insanely religious step-fathers shitty house listening to Nirvana on CDs borrowed from older friends who, in hindsight, someone really should have made sure I wasn’t alone with, but I’m wandering off topic. We started studying for SATS at 13. We went to therapists because our parents/guardians didn’t want us as emotionally inept as they were. We learned about sex in chat-rooms, lying about A/S/L.

We got good at talking about our feelings with people who might have been nothing like us. Somewhere along the way, for different reasons, we got really good at dying. Really good at falling in love with our own sadness and desperation and romanticizing the silver ribbons of scar-tissue on our wrists and upper-arms and thighs.

A decent portion of us left institutions of higher learning and fell into the dark maw of economic collapse because Fuck us, right?

We Stayed in the university towns we moved to and tended bars, went back to the places we were from and opened vintage stores and Occupied Wall Street. We went into our Fields and became Vegan leaders of today who participate in less damaging consumerism. We took Jobs in the Tech-sector and made shitloads of money we lovingly toss into burning man. We also became the new, Hip face of the Alt-right too, unfortunately, and a myriad of self-serving shitty things. We became adults who strive to make the world something it wasn’t when we arrived. We done good for Hipster Scum, you know?

Maybe it’s time to stop romanticizing our sadness for other people’s consumption. I am not proud of the scars I walk around with, in the same way I’m not proud of the terrible Self-Tanner and Black-eyeliner and dresses over jeans and liking Dane Cook. I want to shine brightly until I blink away, something I never thought I’d feel when I was younger.

As usual, I don’t have a suitable ending here.

I love you, scars and all.


Thoughts on the usage of”what’s your objective opinion  “

I think what’s happening when someone asks for an *objective opinion is an untethering of you, the asked, from the protection and safety of polite social niceties. You’ll notice I said “protection and safety”,not “crushing niceness” or whatever. Maybe this is key in how I think about this. Whether or not we claim to like them, polite social norms often protect us from saying what  we really think in situations where it doesn’t matter  what we really think.
When a friend asks for an objective opinion, they are asking to cut you free to possibly  hurt them. They are cutting you free from safety to tell them that their paper isn’t up to standards, that their wardrobe could use improving, that their kid is a shit, that they are going bald, or maybe they are really codependent. They’re setting you loose to give an honest opinion from your heart, and they are not saying that nothing you say will be held against you.

They’re not giving you permission to be cruel.

This isn’t coming out of anywhere in particular. Occasionally I just spend inordinate amounts of time thinking about word usage and why we think the things that we mean, may not mean exactly what we think they do. (could I have said that more confusingly? V unlikely)

I love you. Be nice to each other.
* I don’t really think there’s such a thing as a genuinely objective opinion.

Enjoy these here 🍌 🦆

Me too. 

Two days ago when so many people stood up and said “Me, too” on Facebook, I was one of them. And then 2 hours later I took that post down. The reason I took it down is because on some level I still feel some shame or some confusion regarding some  of the things that have happened to me. So instead of explaining  that shit anymore I’m going to say this.

I believe You. 

It doesn’t matter  what the circumstances were, I don’t care if you should have been more sober. I don’t care if you weren’t as in control of yourself as you wish you had been. I don’t care if you were a sex worker and you couldn’t talk to anybody else about it at the time, and you’re still confused about it. It doesn’t matter  the circumstances were that led to your sexual assault(s). 

Me. Too. I believe you and I love you. 

Fuck nuance, fuck what you should have done differently, It shouldn’t have happened, and I believe you.