an ode to my favorite revolution

i found out one of my favorite bloggers in the entire world from early 2000s closed her blog and i felt such an immense sadness when i found out that i cried.

i’ve followed it since i was in seventh grade. i had no real, constant female voice through puberty and i would obsess over her coming of age posts for advice and guidance and wisdom.

i remember the words she wrote of partying, love, body dysmorphia… weight, love, writing, work, and developed my own methodology for life based on this woman from the other side of the world. when i felt the most lost or confused i would binge her blogs like the most important commandments.

there were questions i didn’t know how to ask. i was fourteen, fatherless, mentally motherless, and beyond lost. searching for femininity, sexuality, hope. a life that i could look forward to growing up: something more interesting than thirty years of schooling, missionary sex and one man for the rest of my life until i died.

i became a voracious reader of textbooks, teen fiction, adult fiction, the great poets, novelists, and at night i would still fall asleep rereading the words of a woman who made adulthood feel like something worth making it to.

i befriended her when i became old enough to: sixteen years old and unabashed about having a hero. i think about showing her this post, maybe. how the stories of her life echoed with my brothers and all of my favorite novelists when i made decisions. how special and great it is when we have our few yearly correspondences.

when i think of quitting writing or this blog of my own i think of the girl i used to be; selfishly hoping that just maybe there is another out there reading my paragraphs in the dark.

the internet is a remarkable place for showcasing remarkable souls.

thirteen years of me were so blessed to read over fifteen years of you.

thank you forever, H ♡

character building

i can feel myself slipping through my own fingertips: everything i once loved and enjoyed cascading through my skin

there are new things i love. new parts of me, new stories and collected memories. there are new things i like. people, things, methodologies. coffee in abundance, schedules, assistants, and the feeling of steady employment and exponential growth

but why does it feel like a trade? the parts of me that i loved before feel lost, gone: distant pasts existing only in polaroids, mini dresses, stilettos and bottles of don julio blanco

i reread the pages of this blog, my private journals and public musings. the way i used to write about this girl i used to know: sweet, effervescent, dangerous, reckless and stress-free. she was one hundred and fifteen pounds of magic, trailing glitter and laughter and leaving memories and happiness like wildfire

i had two rules back then: live for the story and  do it with conviction. i’m technically late twenties now: punctuated by polite nights with treasured friends instead of loud music, blacked out memories and aggressive dancing.

they say when you get older you know more about what you really want. a cat and a home and a stable income. people who love me… but im twenty-six at four in the morning and if you asked me what i was missing now maybe the answer just might be limes.

my therapist asked me what i do now when i’m sad. write, read… bury myself in work.

and she asked me what i did before when i was sad. i laughed. oh jeez… drink, eat, cry, vomit?

i’ve lived six different lives so far. maybe wanting limes isn’t as bad as chasing with them.

lessons from twenty-six

last weekend i looked in your eyes and they looked exactly like mine. you’re almost seven months and they left you alone with me for seven minutes and my heart pounded and flinched at the amount of responsibility

you are magic I whispered you will always be able to do anything you want to

i saw you smile and i felt the world melt away. your mommy and daddy love you so much, I can’t wait for you to see 

I want to tell you everything I loved being told. I wanted to hold you forever. you squirmed and fidgeted and laughed.

I panicked and gave you back. there’s so much to know. I sat on the plane and thought what I’d tell you first.

i think about the past few years. how quickly i left highschool, the eleven cities i wandered lost. the places I loved most. the people I liked least. the man I loved the most.

i hope ten years from now when you ask me questions my answer will be the same. i hope twenty years from now when you ask me what to do i tell you the truth.

choose love. when it comes to life, feeling rarely becomes regret. the memories you remember the most are the ones that you fight the strongest for. when things feel difficult, it means there’s more to learn.

don’t hurt yourself too much. nobody can protect you from heartbreak; but the world has given you people who will always love you enough to hold you through them.

we are not perfect. people were not made to be stagnant. people were not made to live their lives in one perpetual motion. the people who come into your life are still important even when they have to leave.

even if it’s hard, try to remember. the memories that hurt the most are hiding the memories that feel the best.

life is about feeling; they’re too sacred to regret. pain is a lesson. you’ll meet someone one day and they’ll feel like heaven. if you don’t allow yourself to fall, you’ll always wonder.

growth will never be hating anybody who ever made you feel. sometimes crying purifies the soul. sometimes it’s annoying, wasteful bullshit.

choose love. in yourself, first. in your family, second. and whoever chooses you, too, third.

when it gets dark: breathe easy. the sun always rises if you have enough courage to last the night.

I wish I could give this life to someone who wanted it more.

My thoughts get louder and everything feels distant. I miss the silence; the over-confidence, the cleverness. In complete irony, I miss what everyone who I’ve met before laments for: the girl.

late night ramblings with early morning mixes. somewhere between an update and a mildly depressive, pedantic word vomit

Whenever I get stressed or upset or sad I walk into the kitchen.

Sometimes I grab a bottle of 409 and scrub. Other times I empty out my fridge and try to make something I’ve never made before. Every time it ends with feeling like I am where I belong.

There’s a loneliness that happens when you treat life like a competition. Somehow everyone turns into competitor, and very few people ever turn into allies.

2019 was the year of aggressive self-discovery for me. A lesson in relationships, in business–in partnerships of romance, of finance, of familial. Lessons in who I was, who I wanted to be, and who I kept ending up like.

My mind always goes back to the two people who I came from. I’ve made a million bad mistakes and maybe thirty two good ones. The good ones are all people. Friendships and kindness I happened into that I probably had no business in having.

What do you care about in life? Honor, character, perseverance. Respect, longevity. What influences it? Maybe a hundred and one rewatches of Mulan. Jesus, how did I get here? I think sometimes when I sit down to work.

Oh my god, how did I get so lucky? I think most of the time when I sit down to work.

It’s interesting how long 500 days sounds like when it’s barely a fraction of anything relatively important in the timeline of your life. When was the last time you did something or felt something for 500 days? The last time you changed shampoo brands, used a different toothpaste or had something for the first time?

500 days is the lifespan of a child still being counted and measured by months.

500 days is the starting title and premise of a very unsettling romance film.

500 days is the amount of time it took to go from relatively nothing to stunning expertise in a very specialized career.

I used to repeat to myself over and over Everything starts with a day one and I never absolutely understood. Momentum in my life felt like sitting in a car blindfolded. I spent twenty four years of my life feeling barely above water. Can I take the blindfold off now?

I want to stop the car, but it doesn’t.

My counselor told me that people who’ve experienced life changing trauma sometimes feel afraid of happiness. My counselor told me once before about imposter syndrome.

I was sixteen, a junior flunking out of high school since I forgot how to get out of bed in the morning. I had mandatory counselor sessions every day because I was mentally high risk. Ten years later I still don’t know how to get out of bed some mornings, but I found a job where I didn’t have to.

I’ve replaced the counselor with a cat, boyfriend and a liter or two of patron. Cliches suck but everyone knows them.

People always want to talk about millennial issues and maybe the big one is the internet because it makes us lazier, less stimulated. Ten years ago I thought marijuana was a hard drug. Now I feel like hard drug lies somewhere between DHT and PCP. But once in a club bathroom one of the prettiest girls I’ve ever seen talked about how much she loved Angel Dust.

That’s when things get confusing, maybe. When you follow the beautiful, effervescent girls. Then you become one. Then you stop being one.

I’ve changed songs about fifty two times throughout writing this. I still think I’ve been through more friendships in more phases in 500 days.

People don’t like you when you’re not fun anymore. When you’re not young, lithe; free. But do you like you?

On ‘Why don’t you write more?’

Why don’t you write more? Everybody always asks me the same question over and over and once more for good measure and once again when they’ve remembered how long it’s been since they’ve asked it last. It’s flattering and kind. It’s sweet, with undertones of wanting, complementary, but naturally so and not forced so–all of the things I’ve ever wanted anybody to say about me. To feel about me.

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