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 🍌 🦆


February 14th

There’s decent artwork on the walls of  the Red Rock coffee shop, this rotation. I’m sitting across from a canvas bearing a painting of a rather interpretive bobcat and baroque doorways in blues and burn umber. It works, wether or not it should. There’s a Meetup of Hebrew-speaking people behind Alvin and I and  as we have computers  out working on various projects.

Yesterday, Alvin and I got married. We’d talked about it for some time now: I don’t have people, per se. No family to speak of , and my friends are spread out all over the world. His friends and family are in Malaysia. It would’ve taken a bit of effort and so so much time to have a wedding , and it wasn’t important to either of us.We might do something bigger later, but we’re married now. Just like when I got my cat, I committed to feeding his dumb little cat face for the rest of his life, I’ve committed to loving this person and sharing our responsibilities and becoming the best versions of ourselves together, and I’m blissful in this choice.

 This isn’t my first marriage: If you know me, you know this. I got married too young to someone who was and currently IS lovely, but because of failings on both of our parts and some general un-ready-ness on my end things didn’t work out. That’s all I’ll really say about that union.While things didn’t explode, but it wasn’t a good match and it didn’t end easily. I’m a very different human now than I was then.(Something that thanks to Faceboook, I’m reminded of on the daily.  years ago me was occasionally cringeworthy, fuck) I’ve changed and  steered and danced off into the mountains and moved and survived a thousand times since then. There was Jeff, also. How do you talk with any comfort about getting married after a divorce and the death of a partner? It’s not like I’m 40 or something, thats low-key a LOT of baggage for our age.  I felt anxiety about announcing anything until afterwards, and perhaps I shouldn’t have felt any. I don’t know. Life is delicate, and i was too indelicate when I was in my twenties not to learn from my many mistakes.

Here we are, though. My husband is a wonderful man.  I look at him often and see every facet and am amazed at how  how much we both contain. This is the beginning. Here we go, Love.

“Why does everyone hate me?”, and other questions often-asked by young, suburban female rejects.


I packed up a to-go container of assorted cheeses and hiked them  to my tattoo artist’s studio, across the street. I’ve recently had a large amount of cover-up  work done on my chest and upper-left arm, and he had a lot to work over. The last time I was there, I accidentally tipped %15 in the Square app because that’s my default at coffee shoppes. Now, there is quite a large difference to me between the intimacy of 3 minutes of conversation during the preparation of my exceptionally large Latte(which I genuinely adore you for making, don’t get it twisted) and  the almost ritualistic injection of ink into my epidermis, painfully(sometimes for both the artist as well as the canvas) over a span of hours. Fifteen percent isn’t enough, so.. I could bring more cash back later:That is a totally plausible  solution. Unfortunately, I am myself, so that’s too anxiety-producing and awkward  so the answer is cheese. Cheese and me overtipping next time.

You spend  several hours taking an idea out out of your mind and pounding it into my chest, and I’ll feed you. You give me solutions, I’ll edit your paper. Watch my cat and I’ll take you to shop when you don’t want to but have to. Just know that I’ll feel uncomfortable when you acknowledge that’s what I’m doing, because It feels so odd in this sterile place.

I often feel American culture is too sterilized: we’re so impersonal, and I’m not an impersonal human. I’m intimate and small in a world filled with open-plan , overhead-lit workspaces and florescent bulbs. I refuse to change this.


We are the daughters of the witches they tried to burn

When I sit down to write, most of what I intended to say disappears.

I recently started Bullet journaling and have a million points written down, so of course I left the journal in question at home and I’m not going back to get it, because California weather is fucked up and I don’t want to walk back .

It’s been an overwhelming week or so since the inauguration of out great Cheeto-in-Chief: Arresting Journalists, Gag orders, Twitter somehow becoming a viable platform for elected officials  to communicate ideas and effect stock prices, alternative facts, You know, business as usual. There’s so much happening at once that it is really easy to get fucking furious, wall off, and do absolutely nothing .

We cannot, CANNOT be apathetic. We must fucking not wall ourselves off from people who disagree with us or differ from us: That’s how we got on the long path to here. We  also can’t afford to not stand up for what we believe.

I’m not going to tell you what to do; I’m going to tell you what I think we should do and what I’m personally going to do to be engaged. I don’t care of we don’t agree,I just believe you should follow the channels to get your individual voice heard.

Unify. March during the work week.

Defend planned parenthood, and our reproductive rights which are constantly at risk.

Practice intersectional feminism. March for the rights of people not your race or religion or assigned gender. All “us nice white ladies” are weekend warriors if we marched one fucking time in a pink hat and then gave up. We’re Nasty bitches who march with our brown, black , trans and indigenous sisters for their rights.

Don’t be stomped into believing this is normal. It ain’t.

Get pissed, and then do something with that anger that betters the world.

Live your everyday life as an act of defiance and protest.

PRACTICE RADICAL COMPASSION. Pay attention to your spirit and your soul, however you define it. Send your magic into the world. Love the world around us. expand your fucking consciousness.

Don’t listen to the loudest, dumbest voices.  Research and learn, constantly.

That’s all I got right now.

Last of all, I love you. I see you. You are not invisible, not to me.