I’m sad and restless and want someone to fuck. I’ve sexualized my feelings for so long that I equate sorrow with finger-banging. Unfortunately, I’m breaking old patterns and will not be looking for my next prisoner for my lust or a shirt to discreetly wipe my snot on. Nope. Nope. Nope. Instead, I’ll write. I’ll sit with my pain. I will breath in and out. I’ll blow my nose into a Kleenex. It’s not the same as having an orgasm, but such is life…meaning, life sucks.Read More
Before I dive back into writing about my childhood and actively work on my book, I want to discuss why I’m doing this in the first place. No. Seriously. Why am I putting myself in this torturous position? It’s so hard. I’m dying! Send help! Or if you’re from my hometown, send a King Cake. I know it’s Mardi Gras season, ya’ll…Read More
Why do I feel like I'm plus size when I'm only a size 4, sometimes 6? Why do I clock a chubby woman when I see my reflection? How come my self-esteem just plummeted down into a dark hole of compare and despair? Why do I feel like I just got dumped when I wasn’t even in a relationship?
Writing is hard. I put so much pressure on myself as if I’m figuring out my existence on this planet through the keyboard of my MacBook Air. I sit here with this desperate need to prove myself. To any man who broke my heart or even swiped left, to anyone who didn’t believe in me, to any acting teacher who told me that I wasn’t good as is and that I should change my appearance or voice in order to make it in this industry, to any asshole kid from my childhood who called me fat and made me cry, to any restaurant or bar manager who fired me and forced me to feel dumb, to any dick customers who were rude, to any guy who treated me nothing more than a sexual object for themselves, to any selfish man who I slept with who wasn’t at all curious about my clit, to anyone who lied or deceived me or even cut me in line, to anyone who unfollowed me on Instagram or Twitter, to anyone who honked at me on the road, to anyone who has not invited me to their 4th of July Day parties and then obnoxiously post about it, and then to my father for not loving me the way I should have been loved and to whomever killed my mother and then dumped her lifeless body at a grocery store parking lot with her breasts hanging out as if she were merely just a piece of trash…
I am sad. I feel heavy. I am drinking coffee in bed, debating on whether to go back to bed. I know I shouldn’t. I slept a full 9 hours, yet my bed feels warm and enticing, familiar and safe. I wouldn’t mind escaping for an hour or two. What am I trying to escape? An open Sunday with nothing to do? A nap wouldn’t hurt anyone. I’d probably stay out of trouble. There aren’t any calories in sleep. And not consuming calories is always the right thing to do. I need to lose 20 pounds anyway. I don’t look like the rest of you do. My body is odd and doesn’t fit in.Read More
Sometimes I’ll get sad, and I won’t exactly know why. Is it important for me to figure out anyway? Because holy shitting dick nipples is there a lot of sadness to draw from these days. From the school shootings, to the much needed but very loaded #METOO movement, Trump saying...well, anything, never having a mother, being raised by a shitty dad, a reminder from a friend that- no my ex, whom I loved, was truly a misogynistic asshole, all the money that I’ve thrown at acting teachers who have feasted off my insecurities, growing out of friendships, being rejected over and over in this industry, almost 35 years old and still not knowing how to apply blush, how easy it is to gain 5 pounds all within a week but losing it takes months or never, everything being so goddamn expensive, a pimple appearing on my butt…the list goes on and on.Read More
I don’t feel like doing shiiiiiiiiiit. I guess that’s the real holiday spirit. I’m expecting blood to gush out of my vag any minute. Well, more like a sporadic drip. I’m not ready for the holidays, yet I’m fine with just throwing up my hands and calling it a year. The days are short. Nights are long. And I want to exist somewhere in between.Read More
I’m pretty laid back… and possibly lazy. Sometimes I blame my laziness on being from the South. There’s something about the humidity and the deep roots of racism that weigh on people there. I’ve also had a dead-beat dad that wasn’t a good role model. I’ve never had a mother so there wasn’t anyone to tell me to do chores. I could go and on, but in honor of this blog, I won’t.