almosting it



I can’t actually account for where I’ve been or what I’ve been doing. I’m pretty sure the answer is somewhere between nothing and convalescing, but does it really even matter? Imagine a world in which no one said anything when they in fact had nothing to say. I’ll wait while your faithful robot butler scrapes your brain matter from the surrounding surfaces, does a reconstruction and reinstallment.

Are you booted up?

I remembered: I’ve been round the back of the internet. As in reading words printed on paper and sewn together, then scribbling notes in my diary instead of online.
009 (2)I’ve been toying with the idea of being a librarian, and then at least a books feature writer for one of those reputable sites from where millennials like myself scan the news.

And feminist nannying between being miserable at/quitting/getting fired from regular jobs.


And most importantly, avoiding the current discourses on gender, race, and income equality because sub-subculture oppression is very on trend and social media feminists have gotten way out of hand and I would like to murder each of them with a envelope of poisoned glitter.

I have, though, been considering producing some newer writing samples on the off chance that I find the wherewithal to update my resume and slog through yet another cover letter so I can adult with a little more style (owning groceries, wardrobe beyond superhero t-shirts).

In the midst of all these considerations, a new Facebook group called Reconstructing Feminism was founded. I was like, ‘cool, maybe we can finally have the constructive conversations I’ve been waiting for! The sort where everyone has a seat and shuts up during other people’s turn to talk, susses out their feelings on a variety of sensitive topics, and eventually figure out what we need in the next movement.’

Last year I worked on and never finished an article for Harlot of the Arts about online feminism; this new group was the perfect excuse to wrap it up. So I did, and for a good minute there we were having the discussions of my dreams until an ivory tower feminist saviour started pasting oppressive labels on everyone participating in a conversation regarding being active (in the name of feminism) in causes that oppress certain groups. I got fed up and left the group because my nerves is bad and I take in far too many crime shows to have enemies.

However, I’m still looking for people with whom I can have these conversations. So, I offer to you my latest essay, “Passionate Women Type.” and ask that we talk about it. I’m open to criticism, but not redirecting conversations to further outrageous agendas.

WordPress has gone through some weird updates and wants me to download everything and its mother to embed a PDF, so sorry about the weird links.

Thank you for reading passionate women type.

cake or death


IMG_0967.JPGI’m missing my friends’ wedding festivities because I didn’t know I was supposed to save a date and had my wisdom teeth pulled. So I’m home alone with swollen gums and several prescriptions, and every once in a while the bedroom ceiling slides to the left like a Dali painting. IMG_0965-0.JPGIMG_0946.JPG
I am reminded that I never did finish planning MY wedding that was supposed to have happened on May Day. Because of the polar vortex my life fell apart for several months and then I got a terrible job and it rained on May 1st and I had a nervous breakdown. I haven’t spoken nor thought of my tragic wedding or even peeked at the chaotic lists of favorite foods/feelings or sketches of dresses I will never learn to sew. Not even the Pinterest board full of whimsical things to do with balloons, champagne, and hors d’oeuvres.
But today I did. And I’m like: damn, I can’t believe I used to have my shit in a together enough pile to coordinate events. Weddings look exhausting. But I totally want to have a chill, no-pressure party with all these things that I picked out for myself.

Then it dawned on me that I will be 25 Thanksgiving week, and I can practice throwing my wedding by having a killer birthday. Last year only two people came to my “party” because there was a “blizzard,” and then we couldn’t find a bar to serve us in that shitty town, AND THEN we almost got arrested for sliding through a stop sign in said blizzard. I cried a lot.

The thing is that when I turned 23, everything was sparkly and like this:334.JPGI literally danced in the street and did cartwheels until I fell down. It was like New Year’s Eve, but in my honor. I want that again.

Luckily, I get to turn 25 during one of my worst years thus far:
A preview of the manic-depressive pixie party of my dreams:

So, IDK, brace yourselves or whatever because I’m having an Ida Maria feminist superhero ballerina masquerade poetry bordello Martha Stewart-approved cocktail party dance battle orgy.

Free the nipple. Save the date. Thanksgiving 2014.



I haven’t been writing lately because I’ve been depressed or whatever and I got some new photo editing apps and groceries so I’ve been busy in a very idle sort of way.

I could write for days and days about depression, but that would just be depressing. In short: I’m too young, black, and female to be taken seriously. The FLOTUS still has the same problems that I, a nobody from a nothing town, struggle with constantly.

So I’ve been succumbing to my own vices and listening to a lot of golden age radio detective mysteries. I’ve been taking selfies and practicing the art of braising pork and fermenting kimchi.

I go to work and I resent everything and everyone because I learned my work ethic from the Greatest Generation and still my best isn’t good enough. I get verbal warnings and terminated pretty much constantly.

All I want to do is get my hands on some Monsanto-free soil and start a little farm in my apartment. I’ve been all over the internet learning to improve my space and how to pollinate without getting evicted for having a bee hive in my living room.

I’ve given up on most of my dreams, replacing them with the single, multi-layered goal of self sufficiency. Everything I try is daft as it is, so why not live alone in the forest with goats and books?

Sometimes I cry because my existence is basically futile, but what else is a girl to do? Have a drink, a smoke, and try something else.



Sometimes you do your morning ritual: prop yourself up, sip coffee, smoke and see what the internet is doing, and you find something so visceral & heartbreaking that your cigarette has turned into a long chain of ash and burnt out between your fingers, which are under a spell that suspends your wrist midair, causing you to forget to inhale.

Originally posted on That we are all Ninja:

the day couldn’t have been more perfect; the sun shone brightly, clouds lingered here and there and the sky hung lightly in its lazy blue haze.

i signed your name on a piece of paper and spoke it aloud,

letter by letter,

and word by word.

i held you in my hand and in the air; i let the breeze set you free.

as you floated and drifted, i folded my hands in prayer, closed my eyes and centered you in my thoughts, my words and in my lotus heart.

you danced and danced on and i prayed.

the breeze let you go and you fell to the ground.  there, in silence, i stand and you lay.

i open my eyes . . .

i see you standing where your signed name rests.  you are no mirage.  you are here.  my eyes blur with tears and my lotus heart blossoms…

View original 136 more words


Dame el café para cambiar lo que puedo, y dame el vino para aceptar que no puedo cambiar todo.20140613-211807-76687681.jpg




+ dépêches: IMAGE&TEXT


I will always be a big dumb idiot who went to college for a thing people totally need but don’t can’t pay for.

So I will never afford groceries, my occupation will always be everything and nothing, I will never work for money, and I will always make adverts for the small business I love on my outdated technology.



BUT. There will never be a reason for me to leave the underpants party in my apartment. Worth it. Because I’m worth it.