And still, our friendship remains unchanged.

Long story short: Kris and I met when our families became friends when I was 13 and he was 22. I don’t know if it was because I was home schooled and wasn’t saturated with mainstream teenage behavior, or had to grow up fast because of my mom, or was just a general bad ass from day one, but we were legit friends even with our age difference. Our families lost touch a few years later when my mentally ill mother took a turn for the worse and I moved out of the house at 16 years old. A few years after that I found myself married and living a somewhat stable life for the first time. I decided to Facebook stalk those that I had lost touch with, Kris included.

Turned out he was still in Phoenix and was also married. We met for lunch and found our friendship still easy and familiar, even though it had been some years. We went on a few double dates with our spouses and continued having lunch — sometimes every few weeks, sometimes with months in between. His wife was struggling with mental illness and he was starting a business with his best friend — all of that consumed most of his life. But for lunch we’d meet — often when he was having a bad day and needed cheering up.

We never flirted or had any sort of energy like that. If anything he always sort of made me nervous. I was the goofy, younger girl and he was the sophisticated older guy. I do remember having fleeting thoughts of: does he know his life could be like this all the time? I’m fun all the time….and he only gets it for an hour at a time on his lunch break.

I had already “broken out” of the mainstream having quit my corporate desk job and started my own business working as a birth doula. I remember wishing his life wasn’t so hard and wondered if he made it harder than it needed to be simply because he didn’t know any other way.

Our friendship continued through both of our divorces. I found myself single and curious — going on dates and to parties and even meeting a couple that wanted to have a threesome. For some reason butt stuff was on the table for this threesome and I of course consulted Kris. There was no subject that was taboo, nothing that was too personal to discuss. The next day he used his lunch break to accompany me to the sex shop to buy an ass blaster because I didn’t want to go alone. A few months after that we were having lunch discussing my newly discovered pregnancy and upcoming abortion. We were never anything but 100% supportive of and transparent with each other.

He was going on dates too — finding matches through dating sites and calling me with stories afterwards: what car they drove, where they went for bad food, what jokes of his they didn’t get.

Eventually I decided to spend the summer in Europe. I still felt like someone’s wife and needed something dramatic to mark the shift and shake the feeling. I had a going away party and Kris was there. We remained in loose touch over the summer and as soon as I arrived in New York City (where I was spending three weeks before returning home to Phoenix) I sent him a message to say my cell phone was back on and I had service again. He called me two minutes later and we spoke every day, which was a new thing for us. Through this conversations we continued to bare all. He had spent a bachelor summer and had gone through a shift of his own, too. And for the first time — we spoke about the potential of attraction and sexual compatibility between us. It was decided that good sex was entirely possible, but that together in a relationship we would be terrible. So we just sort of left it at that.

Upon my return I had a “welcome back party” and again Kris was there. What I didn’t know was hat he had brought an overnight bag and had every intention of sleeping over. We had funny drunk sex and I don’t think either one of us had an orgasm. He slept over and the next morning we walked down the street to have breakfast, nothing having changed between us.

A few nights later I went over to his house to hang out and we ended up having sex again and this time it was spectacular. However, our friendship remained unchanged. Both of us were still dating and still sharing those stories with each other. Over the coming weeks we spent more and more time together and found ourselves doing less dating because we knew if we hung out together it was a guaranteed good time.

And slowly, it became a thing. A couple months later we said I love you. He gave me a key and his alarm code. We moved in together. He walked away from the business he had started and severed ties with his ex-wife. We started eating healthy and cooking together. He got off all of his daily medications — allergies, antacids, thyroid, etc. We both short sold our houses and downsized our lives in an effort to start living the lives we wanted. We both started writing. We created the relationship we wanted – focusing on communication and expression, a real commitment to understanding each other deeply. We started taking our tiny budgets and traveling through Europe for the summer. We taught ourselves web design and graphic design. We have big ideas. We try things. We fail. We try again.

And still, our friendship remains unchanged.



I feel like I’m in a grey area of the magic of life lately.

I feel like I’m in a grey area of the magic of life lately.
Lately meaning this entire fucking year.

It’s hard to keep your boner for life when so many things keep not happening.
I know this is just my perception, really.
And I tell myself that if it’s meant to be, it will be.
If it didn’t happen, it wasn’t supposed to.
But I know this is just a bunch of shit I tell myself to try to make even a sliver of sense of it.

People say this too shall pass. And I do believe that.
I have flashes of knowing that there is plenty about this time in my life that I will actually miss.

I get scared sometimes though.
Some people never get out of it.

I was at yoga the other day and randomly ran into an old acquaintance.
She asked how we were doing and I said, “This year has been rough”.
I told her I felt like we were starting to come out of it, but it had been a struggle in every way: financially, with friends, family, work, creativity, health.

She said, “Oh yeah. To struggle financially. That is so draining. We’ve been struggling….well…..since little *Timmie was born.”
*name changed to protect privacy.

And I though, “Holy fucking shit, little Timmie is ten years old.”

And Kris’ grandparents — they’re on a very small fixed income living out the last years of their life.

I tell myself I’ll be different simply because I want something different.
And because I believe it’s possible.
Because I believe in myself.
And because there are sooooooo many things to be grateful for, even on the worst day.

I wonder sometimes if I do believe in myself.
But that question isn’t really a question.
Because if I didn’t believe in myself I wouldn’t still be trying.

This past month I’ve been getting rid of so much physical shit — fueled by the intense desire to move something, anything.

I found myself getting rid of birth books, placenta encapsulation supplies, Airbnb hosting stuff.
And I found myself purchasing things I hadn’t purchased in years — laundry soap, fancy hand soap, pre ground spices.

I remarked that so many major things in my life had come to a close.
I was no longer doing birth work.
My placenta encapsulation business came to an unexpected halt.
Airbnb can suck my dick because they’ve changed so much.
And I’m no longer obsessed with DIY fucking everything.
I don’t want to buy a shit load of ginger, dehydrate and grind it.
I want to just buy it at Costco.

I keep wondering what will come next.
But that’s a weird question because a lot of those things have been closed for some time now.
And still nothing new has come in its place.

In addition to wondering, I’ve been observing what has stuck.
What friends are still.
What principles I still have.
What knowledge has really cemented.
What parts of me are going to be true forever, if any.

And that’s the magic of life, isn’t it?
That everything is temporary and we’re just along for the ride.
That we never really know anything.

Mani – I laughed out loud about the DIY fucking everything. Relatable. I’ve been in and out of love with DIY everything for the past 22 yrs. Haha! Also, your observing what has stuck. So. Much. Yes.

Joell – “That everything is temporary and we’re just along for the ride.
That we never really know anything.” BINGO baby.

Jena Schwartz “I just want to buy it at Costco.” Title!!!!

Emily – Agreed! That stopped me in my tracks. YES!
I, too, find myself asking so many of these questions. I am both at peace and desperate to make meaning of it all, desperate to be present but also to leave an imprint on this world. How? It’s hard.
I loved these lines: “In addition to wondering, I’ve been observing what has stuck.
What friends are still.
What principles I still have.
What knowledge has really cemented.
What parts of me are going to be true forever, if any.” What is constant and also in flux.

I sliced up my finger in an immersion blender

Okay, so – I sliced up my finger.
In immersion/stick blender.
While it was on.
(I have pictures if you want to see. Some people are super into that.)

So that’s why I’ve ghosted these past couple of weeks.

It’s still bandaged now, but I am able to type — though with only 9 fingers. It’s amazing how my brain instantly just adapted though. Like I am legit lightening fire typing with nine fingers. How weird is that? It’s my left index finger, too. Which is pretty key.


I am tired of people who can’t handle their own emotions.
Can’t identify them. Can’t express them. Run away from them.

Kris and I had this thing where we each know that the other is totally emotionally autonomous, which means we have the freedom to say anything to each other. This makes fights and disagreements super easy because we don’t have to worry about the other one taking it so personally and wasting hours with their defensive wall in the way.

I have this same dynamic in a few friendships that are near and dear to my heart. I can say — you’re being an asshole right now. You hurt my feelings. Please don’t do that again. You’re a shitty person. We can’t just be friends when it’s convenient for you. I want to be there for you when it’s not pretty – don’t ghost me when things are shitty. I want to see it all and I want you to see me too.

My emotional transparency has been a great way to weed out people who aren’t genuine.
It’s funny how most people can’t handle the truth. Or emotions. Or real conversations.
They just ghost you. It’s too much. You’re too much. They want to hide and you don’t.
Case closed.

I’m noticing spiritual bypassing a lot lately. Example A — I shared with a friend some very upsetting things I had found out about another friend’s horrific childhood. We’ve shared a lot of intense stuff with each other, so I didn’t hesitate for a second to share this with her.

Her response? “The Taoists believe those who suffer the most are on the fast track to enlightenment.”

That made my blood boil. Fucking enlightenment? What the fuck even is that anyway? I’m pretty sure me friend would trade every moment of her childhood abuse for fucking enlightenment.

She followed it up with saying that she found solace in that thought.

I said I didn’t think the Taoists would reduce/label “extreme emotional, physical and sexual abuse of a child” under “suffering in the name of enlightenment”.

I haven’t heart anything more from her and probably won’t for a while, if ever.

What I think happened? She was triggered by the info I shared and instead of just saying that, she starts spouting off some bullshit taoist quote and shut the conversation down.

I’m talking about my actual friend who experienced actual abuse.
You’re talking about some vague concept of enlightenment.
We are not having the same conversation.

Could I have perhaps made her aware of that? Hey — I feel like I may have triggered you with that info and I’m so very sorry if that’s what happened.

Why didn’t I do that? Why don’t I want to?

Because I don’t want to babysit her.
I don’t want to coach anyone thru getting in touch with their feelings.

I just don’t have the patience, you know?

I’m intense, I’m all in, I’m too much for most.

I was struck by the quote, “I wonder if it will ever stop, or is this just who I am?”

I think about that a lot.
All of these things I want to be better at, to achieve, to conquer.

Will it ever stop? Will I ever feel settled? Will there ever be a moment where I’ve arrived?

Probably not. Sometimes I imagine that only happens when you die.
Because life is for living. For exploring.

Even if it’s simple things like yes — I’ve now made my millions and I’m kicking it in my Italian villa, but — I’m always up for a new restaurant, a new brand of coffee, a new book, a new film, new friends. Life is good, but it’s never too full to turn away opportunities for more sweetness, more adventure and more love.

Recently I messaged a friend asking if we could stay at her place the night of a concert. It took her a minute to respond and I remember thinking that whatever it was, just say it. Whether the answer is yes or no or I don’t know — just say it.

She wrote back and said she didn’t know yet. She’d had a few miscarriages over the years and was now pregnant again. The weekend we wanted to stay was just a few days after she passed a significant date for her and when she’d have a scan that would confirm some important things. “If the baby and me are fine”, she said “then we would totally be up for hosting you guys…..but if the baby is dead or I’m in danger — I don’t think I’ll be in the mood for company. Sorry to be morbid and also not have a clear answer, but there you go.”

I wrote her the most celebratory message back. I told her how much I appreciated her honesty and that her answer was in fact totally clear and I loved her for it.

Because you know what happens in situation like that where you don’t hear back? You make up a bunch of shit in your head. You think you’re not important or they’re an asshole or you’re a loser and they’re selfish.

But the truth just deflates all of that.

We once had a guy interview for our spare room. He pretended to be vegan because he thought that would impress us. Which didn’t make any sense because obviously he lived in our house and we saw what he actually ate.

I want to tell everyone – you don’t have to be afraid of me.
You don’t have to be who you think I want you to be.
Just show up and be genuine. Even if that means you’re a blubbering, weepy mess.
I’m not going to judge you.
I was never asking for perfection or for things to go my way.
I just want the truth.
It ain’t always pretty, but it’s perfect.

And then I remembered: I don’t give a fuck about any of that anyway.

A few days ago I was sitting in a Starbucks, which I *never* do.
It was circumstantial and couldn’t be helped.
The details of which left me sitting in said Starbucks for 3 hours.

I had my laptop with me and intended to “get some things done”.

All that went to shit because: Starbucks. I couldn’t concentrate. There were so many amazing glimpses into humanity that I couldn’t not eavesdrop. So I just gave in. I listened and looked and noticed my thoughts and then started writing them. It was the kind of shit I would’ve said to a friend had I had one sitting across from me — hey, look at her shoes…..omfg did you hear that drink order……what the fuck is up with his t-shirt…..

Since I’m my biggest fan and found what I wrote pretty funny, I decided to post it on Facebook.

I hit “post” and immediately felt hesitation. Why you ask?
Fear of judgement.

Fear of judgments on my rambling judgments.
Fear of being misunderstood.

What if people didn’t think it was funny?
What if they think I’m just some super judgey asshole?
What if they point that out to me?
What if they’re right?
What if I don’t have a rebuttal?
What if I just end up deleting the post because it’s such a shit show?
What if someone wants to get into a debate about fat shaming because I wrote about a strangers “sunburned neck roll”
What if they don’t read as merely observations?
What if they don’t get my sense of humor?
What if they don’t think me sharing my thoughts like that is appropriate?
What if they think I’m judging everyone who goes to Starbucks?
What if they feel like I’m judging them?

And then I remembered: I don’t give a fuck about any of that anyway.

Not giving a fuck doesn’t mean you don’t think these things. It just means that you fucking do it anyway.

So I posted that shit.
And what happened?

People fucking loved it.

They commented with their personal Starcbucks drinks.
Clearly no one interpreted even one iota of disdain for Starbucks.
Nor did they feel shamed for their love for Starbucks.
They were proudly commenting with their own funky ass beverage orders, for fuck’s sake!

It was the most engagement I’ve gotten on a piece of writing in a long time.
And it got me thinking about how much we’re all just fucking voyers.
That’s why the post did so well. It played into not only the voyeristic nature of everyone,
but the primal judgements that you almost reflexively make. You can’t help it. Unless maybe you’re a fucking monk. And even then – who’s to say? Maybe those monks are lying.

I went to a counselors office the other day – one who does EMDR because that’s something that I’m interested in.

I immediately began judging the woman’s office and everything about her.

The walls of her office were sort of a faded doody brown complimented by an accent wall in the most foul shade of orange. I’m sure it was her personal pick though, hell – she may have even painted it herself given the shoddy edge work. She probably stood in Home Depot looking at those color samples and proudly picked out that orange thinking she was hot shit. I imagine her even contemplating quitting her job as a therapist and becoming an interior design she’s just so goddamn proud of herself.

On said accent wall is a bullshit old lady calendar. The kind you get for free with a $10 minimum purchase as Hallmark. The ones full of cartoonish flowers drawn in varying pastel shades. I think there might have been shit ass quotes…..maybe even of the religious sort…. on the top half of the calendar, but I may have blocked that out. On it is written super basic shit like “payday” and “Ed’s birthday”. Do you really have to write down payday? You get paid on the sixth and the eleventh every month? Does your memory suck that bad? Or is it just some shit to write so your calendar isn’t sad and blank?

Moving on to her desk. It’s old – cheaply made faux-oak looking wood. The kind of desk you’d see at Goodwill for $17. Behind the desk she sits in an uncomfortable looking chair with one of those bullshit lumbar supports hanging from the head piece – you know that shit is not legit and makes no fucking difference. Next to her sits two additional chairs, for what I’m not sure as their just covered in her shit. Her shit being one of those god awful oversize quilted bags. The kind Kris’ adorable mother sent me for my birthday that just warmed my fucking heart but that I simultaneously knew I would never fucking use. Not only is it not my style, it’s just not fucking practical for travel (which is what she bought it for – thought it’d make a good carry on). I mean bless her fucking heart, but what good does it do her or me to keep something I instantly know I will not use?

I sat on it for a few days and then realized it was just going to rot in a closet or go to Goodwill, so I might as well see about returning it on Amazon. Come to find out it was an expensive brand and I was sitting on a $75 bag. Hello Amazon credit! Got me some organic mineral make up with that. Seemed a fitting birthday gift to myself. I didn’t use the Amazon credit on anything practical like bulk food or paper towels. I gifted myself some shit I actually wanted.

Anyway, back to this counselor bitch.

If you let your eye keep going past the chairs full of her crap, you come to a similar-to-her-desk cheap as shit rickety bookcase piled with papers and other unsightly displays. And then you come to two more chairs sitting on the other side of her desk. One of them occupied by me, the client.

The judgment continued as I looked at her face. Her dry skin, her poorly applied lipstick, her frizzy hair. Her lack of self care and obvious assumption that uses the excuse “I’m just getting older” for everything. I wanted to hydrate the fuck out of her and take her to a restorative yoga class.

She had on a wide wedding ring – the kind that looked like it was made of multiple different bands. It seemed kind of big and showy in a way that made me wonder if it was real or fake. How is she ballin with all those diamonds working in a run down piece of shit government subsidized behavioral health care office?

But then onto the words she said. The elementary level understanding she had of human nature. The lack of knowledge she had on the connection of mental health and physical health. The tacky, cliche suggestions she made for me. The casual mention of medication to help me sleep dropped into the conversation 4 times over the next hour even after she assured me that she was on the same page with me about wanting to get to the root and not just mask the symptoms.

I left that office knowing I couldn’t work with her. If she could’ve met me intellectually, I’d sit in that fucking chair next to that awful accent wall every week for the next year. Because when it comes down to it, I judge everything, but only really care about the things that actually matter.

I didn’t even realize I was doing any of this making up my mind shit until she abstractly pointed out that we all do it.

She said, “I mean – you start judging things as soon as you enter a room. You suss out the space you’re in. I’m sure everyone who walks into my office has their mind racing trying to make sense of their surroundings”

I started dying inside a little bit inside hoping she wouldn’t say that, as a psychological exercise, she was going to have me list things I noticed about her office.

As sure as I was about her, I politely made a follow up appointment only to call and cancel it the next morning. It was easier to just make the appointment and get out of there, though I judged myself for not having the balls enough to just tell her right away that it wasn’t a good fit.

In the end though, I opted for the most simple path to get the fuck out of there. Not every move in life has to be you taking the fucking high moral ground.

It’s okay to take the easy way out sometimes.

Aren’t greed and expectation nearly the same thing?

It’s funny that greed is a dirty word.
But really – if not for greed — would any of us get out of bed in the morning?

Aren’t greed and expectation nearly the same thing?

I WANT to get out of bed in the morning and take a deep breath. That wanting is greed and yet — I also need to breathe in order to stay alive.

Where is the fine line between basic needs and anything above and beyond that?
Who decides what basic needs are?
Who the fuck are these judgement police telling us to stop wanting?

Luxury is defined as, “something adding to pleasure or comfort but not absolutely necessary”

A basic need — something that is a necessity not a desire. Is this to breathe in and out?
Okay. Then what? Is my morning coffee not also a necessity?
Or is this where we get into greed and judgement?
I don’t need coffee technically to survive, so what is my problem?

I find myself comparing things a lot lately. Just shut the fuck up about that. It’s human nature.

Well I had a worse day than you. You have lots of money to throw at your problems, I don’t have that luxury.
But then. I don’t have a lot of problems either.
Perhaps that is worse – to have a mile long list of fires to put out every day.

Somebody always has it worse.

I’ll be feeling sorry for myself and then I’ll come to a traffic light and watch the haggard looking guy holding his signs.
Sometimes the signs are funny, clever. Sometimes they’re just plain heart breaking.
And then the light turns green. I pass the guy and I see him turn away from the traffic. He knows the light’s green and he didn’t get anything this round.
His effort was all for nothing. He wipes his brow, he hangs his head. He works up a boner to turn back and face the traffic the next time the light turns red.
To put himself out there yet again, because what the fuck else is he going to do?
He doesn’t have the luxury of caring what people think. Of giving a fuck if he looks silly.

And I think — wait a minute, what am I so upset about? In my air conditioned car on my way to my air conditioned home full of ice cubes and filtered water?
What more is it that I’m wanting from life if not to wake up every day safe, loved, alive.

This is where greed feels dirty though.
Even though that man with the signs would also continue to want more.
Once his basic needs were met and he was off the street.
There’s always be more.

Because I do want more than that, even though that sounds just fucking awful when you put it like that, you know?

I think okay. I’ve got the basic things. The things a lot of people in this world would shit their pants to have or to feel.

I’m white as they come.
I’m a woman.
I’m cute as hell.
My boyfriend loves the shit out of me.
We have good sex and mutual respect.
I don’t live in a war zone.
In general, I’m safe all the time.
The government gives me money every month for food.

Right, okay.

So what *are* the things I WANT.

Income security. To not have to wonder where my rent money will come from, if I’ll make it, or what I’ll do if I don’t.
So much money in the bank that the government takes away my food stamps. I can walk thru the grocery store without a list, no budget, with reckless abandon.
What would I even do with all that money?
I’d have a yoga membership.
weekly massages
a stack full of twenties in the glove box to give to the people holding signs
bags in the backseat of my car with non-perishables: soap, tampons, water, granola bars.
A second car.
A fat budget for gifting people — maybe the actual money, maybe actual gifts depending on the situation.
The freedom to travel, to do things unplanned and on a whim.
I’d fast track my health. I’d get all the tests I want that my insurance won’t cover. I’d order all the nutrition and I’d pay someone to help me manage it all until I was truly in a state of wellness.
I’d fund all the kickstarters and all of the online campaigns. I’d buy art at all of the tiny galleries. Tickets to see all of the up and coming local bands and I’d buy all of their merch.
I’d have a few different houses to fit all my moods: one in the woods, one by the ocean and one in the city.
Maybe I’d even have a third car. A really impractical one.
Pay it forward money. For her coffee, for his tank of gas, for their Costco tab.
Creative freedom.
I’d pay a team of people to implement my ideas. I just have the ideas. They make them come to life. They figure out the logistics. I just write the blog – they’re the ones that fancy it up and put it out there. I don’t do anything technical, it’s all creative. I have people that do the grunt work.

Luxury: an indulgence in something that provides pleasure, satisfaction, or ease.

It’d just be life at a different level.
I’d still want to have coffee on the porch in the mornings.
Watch Netflix and eat spoon fulls of peanut butter and chocolate.
Shop at Trader Joe’s
Take sunset walks
Swim in fresh water
And snuggle until 10am
Just maybe on five star hotel quality sheets.

To put it much more simply than that: I want to be living in luxury, that’s all.

Luxury: a condition of abundance or great ease and comfort.

What IS more significant….giving or not giving fucks?

There’s a movie scene where the characters are lamenting about the fact that whenever they discussed their relationships it was always to complain. And someone was like, “Well yeah – it’s because if your shoes fit you have nothing to say about them, you hardly even notice. But when they’re giving you blisters — that’ll ruin your fucking day.”

Or something like that.

And I was like — isn’t that funny? It’s so fucking true for most, though I find myself unable to shut the fuck about how adorable my boyfriend is. They shoe fits, but I want to shout it from the rooftops every day.

I wonder though – looking back at my own life – what IS more significant….giving or not giving fucks.

I feel like it’s the giving of the fucks. Where did I choose to give my energy and how did that work out (or not)? Because when I give a fuck and I give my energy – I remember.

I cannot keep track of the fucks I do not give because there are so fucking many of them. My M.O. is to give no fucks, so the fucks I do not give seem far less significant.

One striking example of giving a fuck that changed the shape of my world was the beginning of my relationship with Kris. He was a goddamn mess and I just gave so many fucks. The first year of our relationship was so hard and there was so much shit to unpack and purge and rejigger. I remember thinking how funny it was that I never questioned doing it.

A friend was over last night and she has been dating a guy for only a few months. He has mental health issues and she was telling us how they had broken up and gotten back together yet again and how he was getting help for real. It’s hard to have lots of experience with that – me with my mother and Kris with his exwife – and stay neutral. Because the truth is, with mental health – it’s the journey of a lifetime. There isn’t an end point of “getting better” like we seem to fantasize about. And it sounded like that’s what she was doing. Fantasizing about a moment when he would suddenly be “all better” and this would “never happen again”.

Stay with him because you’re committed to the journey. Not because you’re waiting out some movie script ending.

So the sort of knee-jerk advice is to say – get out now. Get out now before you invest years of life. You’ve only been dating for three fucking months. Go now before it’s too hard and too late.

But then I think about Kris. Granted, he wasn’t mentally ill and we had already been friends for some time. But there was some shit going down that first year and it never occurred to me to leave him. I just knew that he would overcome what he was going through, no question. I never weighed my options. I never wondered if it was worth it. I never labeled things being “too hard too early”.

And look at what that investment gave me.

A going-on-seven year relationship. Where I still have sex dreams about him. Where we apply for food stamps together. Where we never blame each other for how hard things have gotten lately. Where we still really like each other. Where the idea of us being better together isn’t even a question. Where we know that we’re going to come out on the other side intact.

My chiropractor keeps really surprising me lately. She’s just so genuinely interested and invested in my troubles as of late. And I wonder – why is she giving so many fucks? She doesn’t even know me. It’s not like we’ve been friends for years or something. She must see something in me that I forget is there.

Today she adjusted me in her second story office. I did not want to go back downstairs and out the main door because it’d mean I’d have to wade through a sea of cookie cutter assholes. The kind that masquerade as down home spiritual hippie do-gooders, but who in reality are just shallow mean girl bitches putting on a good show.

The type of women that use the word yoni. A word I could never get into. I always felt like a fuckin poser using it, it just never came natural and doesn’t resonate with me.

And like – what the fuck is the word “yoni”? It’s a sanskrit word. So why is everyone suddenly obsessed with a sanskrit word for lady genitals? Like – we’re not practicing hinduism. We’re not using any other sanskrit words or trying to learn the language. We’re not into other parts of Indian culture. So isn’t that the “cultural appropriation”? Another thing everyone is obsessed with finger pointing and blaming about? So with yoni it’s like -fuck the rest of the culture and language, we just like this one word.

I, for one, like the word pussy — which is also not a cool word. I’m “supposed” to say cunt if I was a real feminist. I’m supposed to take back the word cunt! It’s not longer a swear word or an insult, it’s the proper powerful term for a woman’s genitalia.

Ok, cool.

But I also like the word pussy.

And I think cunt is fucking hilarious as a swear word. It’s just such a great, snappy, one syllable word that is so easy to say. And take the brits for example, “cunt” is nothing across the pond. Cunt is practically a term of affection. They can say it on T.V. in a family friendly show, they practically greet each other saying, “How are you, ya fuckin cunt” Same with twat – it’s a very casual word over there. It does not at all have the same power as we give it over here. In the U.S. if someone says cunt it’s like everyone gasps.

On another note – I like the word vagina. I use it a lot. But if I was a good modern feminist, I’d use the word “vulva”. I don’t like the word vulva. It doesn’t roll off the tongue the same way. It just doesn’t. It doesn’t come naturally to me and I’ve got so much other shit going on that I simply do not want to divert any energy towards retraining my brain to use the word vulva just so an elite group of evolved feminists will think I’m on the level.

It’s like – the word vagina was “the word” for my mom’s generation, and grandma’s probably. Like – in the 50s and 60s – you couldn’t say vagina on T.V. You could barely even reference a woman’s genitals without being called obscene. And if you did, it was something like “Down there” or “hoo hah” or something silly like that. But then – in the 70s and 80s – you could say vagina. And saying vagina was really powerful. Which is probably why I like the word vagina because it was just the word of my time.

And now the fucking trendy evolved word is vulva. Cool! Use vulva all day long, awesome. Don’t micro manage what word I use. Just continue living your life.

Because in the future, it probably won’t be vulva. It’ll probably fucking be – we don’t use any goddamn catch all term for our bits – we call out all the individual parts. We say clitoris and labia majora and introitus. And those who don’t are lumping all the parts of the pussy into one and that’s prejudice.

You know what i mean?

So with yoni – it seems like it’s just another cute sounding word adopted by goddess culture obsessed white women who want to seem all deep and evolved with this rich understanding of sacred sexuality.

Some of those bitches downstairs knew me, some of them that didn’t, but all of them just want to make small talk.
I just want to get the fuck out the door.
I don’t want to be polite.
I don’t owe you a smile and don’t take it personally if I just rush out.
It’s none of your goddamn business.

So the chiropractor took me to the second story balcony where there was a spiral stair case that led down to the first floor deck and right out to my car. No front door, no first floor bullshit. She muscled the gate to the stair case open. She essentially helped me sneak out of that office and she gave literally no fucks about it. I felt like if I even said it out loud that I’d sound stupid or overly dramatic. But she didn’t give a shit. I had every right to exit that building the way I wanted and who the fuck cares what anyone thinks? I didn’t sneak out, I left via the entrance that I preferred.

No explanation needed.


Your darkness is invisible

So many points of inspiration in this prompt.

The opening quote made me wonder if Phoenix is, perhaps, an inhumane place to live. Too taxing on both physical and mental health.

We don’t have the opportunity to attune to the rhythms of seasons and nature because we don’t have them. There’s no seasons in the desert and there isn’t much nature.

What we have is one long summer and then an even longer “spring” – each flips you upside down. To withstand summer for this long (5+ months) is not what we’re wired for.

It’s like a new mother who is lactating even though her baby has died. Her body only knows she has given birth, but it has not registered the death.

And after the summer passes, we’re given seven months of absolute bliss. Which kind of fucks you the other way – you get SO USED TO IT. You can’t even remember a time when a beautiful, clear, sunny day meant it was 115 degrees and dangerous.

The rhythm of three month seasons seems much more natural. You’re always in appreciation of your current season and as soon as you get used to it or get tired of it, the seasons change and a sense of newness is ushered in.

Or maybe I’m just romanticizing seasons since I live in the desert.

Then onto: Depression is boring. I feel so fucking boring right now. I find people talking over me and not maintaining eye contact with me. They’re no longer as interested in what I have to say. It’s too intense, too dark.

I find myself even considering censoring myself at times, which – if you know me even a little bit – you’d know how alarming that statement is. I don’t censor. I give no fucks and live unapologetically. Since I don’t actually censor myself – I just think about doing it – what I do is then feel guilty or self conscious about not censoring myself (another thing I just don’t do).

But the other day I saw my chiropractor after she’d been out for three weeks. I have been seeing her every week for about four months now. God bless her for bartering for my fucking chocolate peanut butter cups. In those three weeks she was out she had missed an epic fucking shit storm of events. I mean, seriously epic. Emotional upsets, shitty health findings, the works. So I frantically started speed-talking to her the moment I sat down.

She did not break eye contact, she did not become upset or emotional. She calmly listened without rushing me and exhibited just the right amount of sympathy and concern for me to feel completely and utterly validated, which is medicine in and of itself.

After my appointment I reflected on the voice in the back of my head as I was speed talking to her. The voice that said I need to quiet down, or stop being so dramatic or stop freaking her out. But then I realized, duh – she is a grown ass woman. And as an emotionally mature, healthy woman – she can handle it. I am not responsible for her reaction or for her emotional well being. I am just being me, showing up as I am.

I wondered how many people keep quiet for reasons they assume. I’m going to overwhelm her. She’s not going to want to see me again. I probably won’t hear form again. She’s going to think I’m a drama queen. The shit that gets into our heads, the shit that we make up is really just us getting in our own way.

Today my yoga teacher asked how I was doing, a question I’ve come to dread. I can’t lie. I don’t do the fake smile oh I’m fine bullshit. So I say, “I’m here. I’m surviving”. Then she asks what I’m surviving and I said, “Life. I’ve just been in survival mode all year. With finances, with health, with business stuff, with most things.” And I could see her eyes glaze over even at that tiny sentence. Even as a yoga teacher. But I guess that’s just it. She’s a human first. And most humans can’t take it. Most humans are used to their daily lives being made up of on-the-surface interactions that don’t mean much of anything. They keep up the front until they can get back into the cave of their house and continue keeping it all to themselves as they were taught.

Happiness and success are the only things that are acceptable to be vocal about. There are a few choice instances where being sad is validated. Generally you can get away with being sad or angry or any other unsavory emotion after a divorce or a death.

But otherwise, nobody wants to know. We’re cool with strait forward grief that we know how to respond to and don’t need too many details about – the kind of grief that Hallmark makes a card for. But anything else ain’t nobody got time for. Shit’s mucky and grey and there’s lots of little things turning into big things and you have needs and many series of small tragedies? There isn’t anything more repellent than that because nobody knows what to do with that.

It is such a privileged to truly know someone yet we don’t ever really know most people. Either because they don’t share their darkness or we don’t want to see it. So we end up getting this really trivial, sterile impression and connection to everyone.

Depression is interesting.

It’s something that’s been on my mind my whole life because my maternal grand mother suffered from depression and was medicated her whole life before committing suicide in her 50s. My mother also suffered severely from depression. She was bipolar and was also an addict – sex, love, and alcohol.

I’ve always wondered if it would happen to me, since it was genetic and merely needed to be turned on or triggered by something.

At this point, I think I’m good. But I still find myself saying – I guess I’m probably not mentally ill. I think I handled that well and it probably would’ve shown up by now.

I was sharing with a friend the other day about how deeply sad I feel most of the time and she said, “It’s circumstantial, right?” Meaning she just wanted to make sure I wasn’t “actually depressed” and then I was just circumstantially depressed for a “good reason”.

Okay – yes, it’s circumstantial. But that doesn’t make it any less valid. But most people in my life are waiting for the storm to pass. Waiting for me to get back to normal. Making remarks like, “Oh – you’re STILL there? I thought it would’ve passed by now.”

I know they mean well, but it’s really fucking lame that not many people want to stand beside you in your storm.

From the outside, it doesn’t appear I’d have anything to be depressed about. People have an image of me from my online presence and forget to acknowledge me as a real person having a fluid human experience.

They’re just waiting for me to get back to being inspirational again. Which is to say – to give them something they can envy. Because I feel inspirational now in sharing all of the different emotions – they’re all valid and it’s not just the pleasant ones that deserve all the play.

I’ll think to myself, I must not be actually depressed since I bought myself new shampoo and am actually using it and bathing. I must not be really if I am able to go to yoga, as much of a chore as it is to drag myself there. An actual depressed person wouldn’t even be able to stand up. But what are these judgement? Life isn’t a contest. No one is winning and just because there are people that have it worse doesn’t mean that your experience isn’t also valid.

There’s a scene in Broad City where Ilana can’t find her keys and realizes they’re locked out of their apartment. She says to Abbi, “Okay, I know this is a total white people problem, so let’s see if you can keep it in perspective – I lost my key and we need to shell out for a locksmith.”

And Abbi says, “Okay – first of all – I’m allowed to be upset even though I’m white.”