So, I’m typing this in front of my brand new, 27-inch, PINK iMac.

I nearly had a breakdown until I got the new computer and turned it on, thinking I’d lost all the Logic projects I had open when the thing crashed. It’s taken me ten months to start actually tracking, saving, not deleting, even re-opening projects. I’m fairly certain that losing those files would have been the end of me.

Thankfully, I have everything syncing in iCloud.

I’m proud of myself for having kept my old computer for as long as I did, and if it weren’t for its apparent suicide, I would have kept using it indefinitely. However, getting a new computer feels like a whole new world. I used to pride myself on being an “early adopter,” technologically—always wanting to get my hands on the newest gadget, or the most up-to-date versions of the ones I already owned. I’m terrified for the day one of my old co-workers leaks an infographic about me made by Apple, stating that one of my “greatest passions in life” is AI-assisted accessible technology. Such media does exist, and at the time, was very true. Still is, to a degree.

(I feel the need to chime in here and just inform - AI, as in the term “artificial intelligence” does not only apply to generative-AI, which we all hate with such vitriol [and rightfully so], but refrain from conflating the two here… please. I do not use generative AI, and do not have interest in doing so.)

Most of my childhood was spent sitting at a desk, in the corner of my bedroom, in front of a computer’s monitor. So, honestly… this feels familiar and instinctual in a way I haven’t felt in years. I think I switched to laptops around 11th grade, and now I wish I never had. I still have my ThinkPad for writing, but that’s its own little monster, internet untouched.

Things are easier to navigate when they have a set location. I don’t unplug my audio interface anymore, it just stays plugged into the back of the thing. The speakers are paired, and they just work. There’s no switching of outputs, inputs, adapters - my MIDI controller and my mic are just sitting there, at the ready.

One of my biggest problems is I can be particular, but beyond that, I am aware of this fact. I know the way I like things, and I know the conditions under which I function optimally. This can become a problem because I tend to surround myself with people who have this same struggle and self-understanding, yet are consistently more effective at holding their own ground. I’m a pushover in my quest for love and acceptance, resulting in:

I easily walk away from accommodations I know I need for my optimal survival, if it calls my ease of being tolerated, into question.

For the last couple of years, this self-suicidal behavior led me to a place of having no environment, nor the appropriate tools, which I knew I needed to succeed. This ranges from a handful of physical items, to an array of emotional forms of expression, needs, validations - extending as well to my literal environmental logistics. I made myself as small as humanly possible, nothing like a desktop computer.

Names, dates, and identifying details have been changed or withheld to protect the privacy of individuals and locations. This piece reflects the author’s personal recollections and impressions, which may differ from the memories or interpretations of others.

This essay is a continuation of an ongoing project called ‘The Garden’ — you can find the previous release from this series here

I was stroking his cock… faster and faster, and it was just getting… softer, and softer.

It was annoying.

I wasn’t used to this happening in session. Now that I’ve come to think of it, I wasn’t used to this happening at all. Typically, they’d be so worked up by this point, it would take little to no effort to finish them off - and really, that was the ultimate goal. No woman working at The Garden was there for the joy of giving hand-jobs… sorry to shatter the illusion (I’m not sorry).

He was on the younger side, certainly under 40. He was attractive—his physique athletic and defined, which I was coming to learn seemed not all that uncommon among the clients here in Los Angeles. They all looked like they lived in the movies, and some of them actually did. I didn’t recognize this one.

He looked Middle Eastern or Southeastern European, as if he could have been from the Balkan region, or maybe even Greece. He had a medium olive complexion, curly and short raven-colored hair, smoldering dark brown eyes which were slightly slimmer than almonds—set deep in his skull, past a striking brow-line. His nose was one of an ancient God from a sculpture I’d have studied in my tenth grade Art History class. His likeness surely lived within those pages of the heavy Gardner’s textbook, disguised in feeling as if a brick in my rainbow-checkered Dickie’s backpack. By the end of that school year, said textbook could be seen poking its hardback corner through a tear in the canvas.

He was handsome, in the culturally standard sense—well-kempt, and looked like the type of guy who had real money, but didn’t want you to know about it. He oozed “quiet luxury.” The inconspicuous, baggy pants he’d arrived in cost no less than $3,000. I could tell he regularly got manicures… and once he was naked, pedicures, as well. I’d found myself initially wondering why the hell he was here. What’s wrong with him? In retrospect? I understand fully.

Now, here I was, being reminded just how much of a “real job” sex work is. This was work. “Frankly—” I thought to myself, “good on him, paying for this service—” I pitied his ex-girlfriends, his hypothetical current girlfriend(s), his ex-wife or current one, and his fuck buddies; no doubt having had the thankless task of facing whatever this issue is, and with no compensation at that! At least I was getting paid.

Still stroking. Jerking. Furiously. By this point, he’d become so soft that the tip of his cock was flapping around between the knuckles of my thumb and pointer finger with every tug, and seemingly with the velocity of one of those bouncy balls you’d crank out of a quarter machine in the ‘90s… amusing, really.

Still, I focus on playing the part. I am a Tantric Goddess. I am divine. I can make this man cum. I can do this. Really, I can! Actually… can I?

“Let me know if there’s anything I can do differently,” I finally let out, trying my hardest to poise the suggestion in the lightest and most casual manner possible, almost as if I were flirting. There’s not really a subtle way to tip a man off to the notion of ‘Hey buddy, this seems like it isn’t going anywhere… also, is there something fucking wrong with you?’—

“You’re doing great!” he replied, as if that reassurance were helpful in any manner, as it did absolutely nothing to help the situation. Surely, he must have been fully aware I’ve been yanking on his soft dick for going on ten minutes.

Returning my focus, I slowed my motions so that my hands resembled the movements of milking a cow, rather than simulating a jackhammer. Slowing my pace, I squeeze and tug, squeeeeeeze and tug. For fleeting moments, it almost seemed as if I were getting somewhere. However, within seconds, his seemingly dysfunctional appendage became even more flaccid than before. I began to speed up again, and by this point, I’d checked out.

I’m thinking about Erewhon. Yes, really.

Specifically, the ‘Coconut Cloud Smoothie,’ and a big container of ‘Mighty Greens’ soup. Ice cold, right out of the fridge. I like to eat the soup cold, typically over a period of a few days. There’s something about the chewy, yet crisp texture of biting into the softened greens—ice cold, salty, slightly slimy. I’d take swigs of the vegetable soup broth, both refreshing and nourishing as it washes down my throat. Slightly thicker than water, you can feel the hint of olive oil as it slides down, yet still it’s light enough to drink in the heat. I’m envisioning the pairing of my precious soup with the smoothie, which aptly named, really does look like drinking a cluster of clouds. I’m tasting the hint of pineapple, only slightly overshadowed by the coconut cream - visualizing how the mixture all turns a little too grey to be considered blue by the end, once it’s all been mixed together.

As if the rudest of awakenings, suddenly and without any warning, I’m snapped back to reality by the most unexpected group of words a man could possibly string together while I am holding his penis.

Breaking the room’s deafening silence, with a flat and monotone—

“Sorry, I just can’t stop thinking about my mom.”

Without a single thought passing through my skull, truly an involuntary physical outburst, I instantly burst into laughter. The type of laugh which pushes its way past your lips with the force of projectile vomit, and there I was—still stroking his cock, and fully cackling my ass off.

I look at him, and to my surprise, he’s also burst into hysterical laughter. Within seconds, I am no longer touching him, he is seated upright on the massage table, and we are both braced against it, individually attempting to gather ourselves and stop losing our minds.

Every time we glanced at one another, we mutually lost it, bursting into laughter once again.

The illusion had been shattered. I am no longer his dirty masseuse, and he is no longer a regular client. Suddenly, we’re both real people.

For a moment, neither of us knows what to do with our bodies, not now that the script has evaporated.

My hands hovered uselessly in the air before I pulled them back toward myself, suddenly aware of how exposed I felt, standing there in character, without a character to inhabit. The room felt brighter somehow, like someone’s turned on the big light. I wiped at the corners of my eyes with the back of my wrist, trying to regain a sense of composure, though my cheeks still ached from laughter.

My ribs hurt.

My mascara might be running. I had no idea.

“Fuck,” I managed, finally, half a breath, half a laugh.

He shook his head, still grinning, one hand dragging down his face in disbelief, as if trying to wake himself from a dream.

“I’m so sorry,” he says, though he’s clearly not sorry in the way apologies are usually meant. More like amazed. Embarrassed. Relieved.

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy, it’s tender yet strange, like the quiet after a nearly catastrophic car accident, when both drivers just stare at each other for a second, grateful to still be alive. I glanced around the room, suddenly aware again of the soft music looping, the folded towels, the faint scent of eucalyptus in the air. All the theatrical cues still humming along, oblivious to the fact that the scene had derailed.

“Well,” I said, attempting a tone resembling professionalism, though that word feels absurd now, “that’s… a first.”

He let out another short laugh, nodding. “Yeah. Same.”

There was a beat where neither of us spoke. Not uncomfortable, just uncharted. Two people standing at the edge of a moment that no longer fits neatly into the transaction either of us signed up for.

And then, almost instinctively, I tilted my head at him, curious now in a way that had nothing to do with the session, but everything to do with being human.

“Okay,” I said, softer. “So… what?”

“Yeah, sorry, I know that sounded super weird. I don’t mean it that way—” he began to explain.

“It’s just that my mom’s been sick. She has some type of cold or something. I’m sure it’s nothing serious. It’s just I was talking to her on the way here, and now I can’t get hard because all I can think about—” seemingly, holding back a chuckle “—is my mom.”

“Well, I hope she gets better soon,” was all I could manage to think of to say in the moment. By this point, the hilarity of the situation had worn off, and I felt out of my comfort zone. Where was I supposed to go from here?

Do I ask him if he still wants me to jerk him off?

No. That would be weird.

Would it be weird? That’s literally why he’s here, isn’t it?

Yes. It would be weird.

I’m in the midst of contemplating my next words when he breaks the silence again, with yet another unexpected string of words. This time, a question, the worst question:

“What’s your name? You know, your actual name, not the one Mother gave you.”

As if he could sense hesitation, he immediately follows with “I’m Ben.”

How does Ben know Mother?

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It’s true when I say I feel the safest I have felt in years. I can’t remember a time, at least since before my apartment fire in Brooklyn, when I’ve felt fully at home in my own space.

My apartment in Williamsburg (the one which burned down) was nothing special, but it was everything to me. I’d lived there almost five years before the fire, and to this day it remains the place I have spent the longest, in terms of consecutive years, during my adult life.

Sharing an address with venue/bar/meat-market Union Pool, on the corner of Union Avenue and Meeker Street - 484 Union Avenue, was prime Williamsburg real estate. Two bedrooms, a decently sized living area, one absolutely disgusting bathroom (with a 1x1 standing shower), and a kitchen window providing full, private roof access to the building next door. My landlord insisted the roof was unsafe to walk on, however she never specified any danger towards the act of sunbathing.

I’d moved in during the winter of 2017, after living in a hotel for nearly eight months. I’d wound up in said hotel after running from an ex one night, the ex being my nearly fifty-year-old girlfriend (t w e n t y – f o u r years my senior), who had become increasingly abusive over our two year “partnership.” The relationship had started off on uneven ground, which is the only type of ground a 23-year-old and 47-year-old can possibly stand on together, as a couple. She was an executive for a prominent TV network when we’d met, but soon she was laid off, and most of our early days together were spent with me commuting to Soho to work my day-job as a Stylist for Diesel, while she stayed home on severance and spent time searching for jobs. When it became inconvenient for me to be working so much, I quit my job over the phone one morning, becoming her full-time live-in girlfriend, yet still fully reliant on my own finances. Stupidly, I cashed in my 401K with max penalty, at the spring-chicken age of just 24, and we burned through it quick, her convinced we should move to none other than where I currently live… Chicago. We flew here, staying in hotels, and once at her Republican sister’s house in Hinsdale, searching endlessly for the perfect apartment.

We must have toured at least a dozen places before going back to New York, and seemingly never mentioning the concept of moving states again. We wound up moving a few miles downtown, to an apartment close to where my grandmother had rented when I was a child. It was a sterile-feeling, Stonehenge managed, mid-skyrise on 65^th and 1^st Ave.

There, things took a stopping turn.

I don’t remember what we were fighting about the night I ran off, but I know all we ever fought about was the concept of controlling me. I wanted control of me, she wanted control of me, and it was a constant push and pull – her micromanaging everything from what I ate to who I spoke to, all while I was on a constantly subservient quest to be granted a sense of freedom and trust by the woman I loved. Sadly, this is a relationship dynamic I would again repeat in my early thirties.

All I remember from that night is the ending. Her storming towards me, pushing me hard, my back bouncing against the wall behind me, dropping to my ass against that wall. It wasn’t the first time, but it was getting worse. Just weeks prior, she had pinned me to the bed, her full body weight crushing me from behind, as she wrapped her arms around me in an attempt to rip my ring, which she had purchased me, off my finger. Sometimes we called it an “engagement ring,” but it was, in reality, nothing more than a tacky stop sign. She had purchased me the craziest looking, multi-carat, pave cocktail ring, which you could see glistening on my finger from at least a city-block away. She had left my ring finger bruised to all hell, along with dozens of finger-tip-sized circular bruises all along my forearms from her grasps. My arms looked like bruised apples, only slightly concealed by my tattoos.

My reaction to the attack that night was unexpected, even in retrospect. I was the calmest I’ve ever been in that type of situation. With her standing a few feet away, in our bedroom, I reached for my phone slowly, keeping my eyes fixed on her. Our eye contact didn’t break, like two wild cats staring each other down before a fight to the death. I phoned my mother, who surprisingly answered, and without a single form of expressiveness in my tone, I matter of fact stated “Hi mom. I need you take me very seriously right now. I need to leave; I need to leave right now.” This is the only time I can think of, in my life, where I asked my mother for assistance, and she pulled through in an actually meaningful way. I’ll always be grateful for that, but I’ll also never understand why.

My mother had recently renovated her own apartment, spending some months living in an extended-stay hotel with her pets, including my step-father (see: pets). So, that is where I found myself for the remainder of the year. Me, my two cats, one dog, and every item I owned, in a hotel suite in Midtown East. I felt like Eloise at The Plaza.

By this time, I had started working for Apple. I was making new friends, and was deep in the applesauce, being both very committed to my role, and to growing within the company. This was how I met my future roommate.

Sparkle (not her real name) was a recently terminated co-worker of mine from Apple’s Upper East Side location. We’d worked together for a year or so, her having transferred in from Queens. Shortly after I’d moved into the hotel, Apple had sacked her for what, at the time, seemed very unfair reasoning.

She was weird, but so was I. We bonded over being musical theater kids, and I found her particularly impressive, because she had a truly remarkable singing voice, and had grown up as a cast member in ‘The Lion King’ on Broadway. We became fast friends, meeting for drinks after work frequently, even after she no longer worked at Apple. She was in a secret relationship (secret because he was technically a direct report) with another one of my Apple co-workers. This was not uncommon at Apple – the employees pretty much all live together, fuck each other, socialize as a bubble (from my experience and observations, at least). She referred to him only by nickname, “Templeton,” and much of our hanging out revolved around her lamenting about the dynamics of their never fully-formed relationship. I was nosy, looooooove workplace gossip, and was frankly just glad to have someone who wanted to hang out with me, so I would sit and listen to anything she divulged.

After a few months in the hotel, I was feeling pressure from all directions to find my own place to live. Living in the hotel was triple the cost of an apartment, and while I was making more money at Apple than I ever had before, it was certainly not enough to sustain myself at the hotel long-term. This is when Sparkle and I decided to find a place together.

The red flags were there, glaring and waving right before my eyes, but I dodged underneath each one with a swiftness I can only attribute to naïve optimism, and trust, for my newfound friend. She didn’t have established credit, didn’t have savings for security and first month’s rent, and everyone around me raised their eyebrows with a look, which should have spoken volumes, when I’d tell them Sparkle and I were planning on finding a place to live. She had worked for Apple for about a decade before being fired, and everyone in the market was familiar with her tendencies of being seemingly always surrounded by a weighted air of drama. I was still new, and I’d told myself they just didn’t understand her eccentric nature. Sparkle and I were similar in that way.

One afternoon, on my day off, we met up in Brooklyn to tour a few apartments. Not liking anything we were seeing, we wound up at a winery in Bushwick to regroup, where I was instantly smitten with the bartender who was working there. Moments later, she recognized him, and it turned out they’d gone to high-school together. I left my number on a mailing list card, writing for him to contact me, “if you want to talk about Jesus,” a nod to a joke I no longer remember regarding him and Sparkle’s time in school together (I think he had played Jesus in a school production, and that was the joke). A few days later, I was in the beginnings of a brief, whirlwind romance with said bartender, and Sparkle and I found the apartment above Union Pool. Technically I found it, on StreetEasy. Sparkle wasn’t crazy about the look of the place, but it was cheap for the location, and all it took was a few minutes inside for me to get her to agree, it was the place.

I solely put down three months of rent as deposit, plus first and last month’s rent, and paid both our application fees, just to get us in.

At first, things were mediocre, then progressively got worse.

Sparkle was impossible, at best, to live with. She didn’t want furniture in the living room, because “it causes people to, like… hang out in there,” she didn’t want to let her cat out of her bedroom (yet seemingly never took care of the cat), she never contributed to purchasing shared household items (toilet paper, paper towels, cleaning supplies), she left strange men in the apartment when she went to bar shifts, men whom she had met the night before at the bars she worked at. Maybe five months in, I found out she hadn’t been paying rent for three months.

Things became hostile once I confronted her about her non-payment, and everything exploded after she put Nair in my hair conditioner. By the following Monday, the landlord had evicted her from the property, on the basis that I could file a police report for assault, and Sparkle moved in with her dad in Connecticut (I think, but frankly by that point, I did not give a shit). I agreed to takeover the lease in full, not really knowing how I would afford to do so, but knowing I didn’t want a roommate going forward.

I had a new boyfriend by this point (not the bartender, though I remained in a continuous limerence over him for several years). I had met my future child’s father on Tinder. We went on one date, he came over to my apartment, and simply never left. I didn’t mind this, but I wasn’t necessarily crazy about it either. We weren’t officially living together until Sparkle moved out, but a couple months later he had given up his room in the makeshift 1-bedroom-turned-5-bedroom loft space off the Morgan stop, where he had been living. He paid half the rent, until he didn’t, then I supported both of us. Eventually, a few years later, we became three. This was during COVID lockdown.

By the time our daughter turned one, he was still living with me, but we were separated, and eventually I asked him to get his own place.

You’d think I would have learned my lesson by then, but no – I started allowing my next boyfriend to essentially move in, while continuing to only pay rent at his own place. He was a deeply un-funny comedian, who I’d later find out was hoarding photos of our female friends, in a saved folder on his phone. Unaware of the fact I was committed to a secretive pervert, we spent time hopping to shows together, where either one (or both) of us were on the lineup. And during the times I had my daughter, he stepped in almost instantly to the role of perfectly doting step-dad, excitedly driving me and my one-year-old around Brooklyn; eating with us on outdoor patios, and swinging us on park swings, while I cradled my baby against my chest. The world was beginning to open up again, post-lockdown, and everything seemed to be perfectly settling into place.

The night before the place burned down, my daughter’s father and I were on the phone, going back and forth over if she should come home to me that night, or just crash at her dad’s ‘til morning. She had gotten her second dose of the COVID vaccine that day, and she seemed tired. We agreed on her staying overnight there, and I told him I’d pick her up the next day. That next morning, I woke up in a burning building.

I’d stumbled out of bed with a deep knowing of something not being quite right, opening my eyes to see a single wisp of smoke, caught in the early morning sun, which always poured into the living room of my 2^nd story window. It was oddly cinematic, moving in seemingly slow motion. The sight of this, coupled with the distinct smell of burning toxins seeping through the floorboards, add the thick clouds of smoke I could see out of my windows, it clicked. Fuck! I aggressively shook my boyfriend awake, so he didn’t die, and the firefighters broke a window, helping us both climb out to a ladder and make our way safely to the ground. Bleeding from both feet, standing on the sidewalk, news cameras in every direction I looked, I’d lost my home, and nearly everything inside it.

I don’t know why I look back on 484 Union Ave as my last place of stability, because if you’ve been reading, it was certainly nothing of the sort. The years I spent living there were full of one change after another. From living there with Sparkle, to living there “alone” with several men, to eventually raising a baby there during lockdown, the apartment itself was rarely peaceful. There was almost always another body in the room. Another personality orbiting mine. Another person needing something from me, disappointing me, loving me incorrectly, or quietly rearranging the atmosphere around me.

Yet somehow, in retrospect, I associate that apartment with safety. Maybe because chaos, when sustained long enough, begins to masquerade as structure. Maybe because I had grown so accustomed to living in a constant state of emotional negotiation, that silence itself began to feel… unfamiliar.

My apartment now is the first space I’ve occupied in years which feels entirely mine. No one monitoring me. No one sulking in the next room. No one I’m subconsciously performing for. No man leaving shoes by the door he doesn’t pay for. No girlfriend, or wife, tracking the pitch of my voice for signs of independence. Just me.

Yet it is, without question, the safest I have felt in years.

It is also the loneliest.

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I tear up when I browse through bookstores. Not in an obvious way to others, but in an excruciatingly nagging way, as if just a fraction less of self-control will send me over the edge - have me sobbing amongst the stacks of my local Barnes and Noble, or God forbid, in the trendy atmosphere of Myopic or Quimby’s. Crying in a chain books…

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I’m coming to you in the supine position, on a mattress, located on my soon-to-be ex-bedroom’s floor, and I am approximately 73% immobile. I have two pillows under my knees, and you (to me, you are my ThinkPad) are resting on my belly. I’ve just consumed half of an entire Domino’s pizza, which I will regret before morning, and I’m ha…

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I’ve lost a lot of function in the last couple weeks, and I believe I am in the throes of either some sort of burnout episode, or mental health crisis - maybe a mix of both.

I am trying, I really am.

I go to to bed every night with much hope for the next day, usually compiling lists of things I can do, places I can go, things I can create, practices …

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For a while, I thought even the forks in the kitchen drawers would disappear, eventually.

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I’m jealous of the woman who lives down the street. The one with three children, a husband, and a dog. We’ve only met once, and when we did, she asked me to sign her petition to have the city build speed bumps on our street.

Speed bumps are annoying.

I signed.

I imagine her husband loves her. I imagine her kids look up to …

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Upon reading this, a plethora of things happened in rapid succession—

One, I remembered I wrote the song in the first place. So, I screenshotted my response as a reminder to not forget it again.

Two, I immediately went to type out the lyrics and add it to the binder of songs that are going in the EP.

Three, I frantically scoured three devices (laptop, iPhone, iPad) for anything from the original idea. Voice note? Notes app? “Untitled 58” in my iCloud’s ‘Logic’ folder???

Four, I sifted through three journals to try to find any evidence, where finally I stumbled across the lyrics within the back pages of two journals ago, written in right to left format… for whatever reason.

After all of this, I found the original demo in my iPad’s BandLab wasteland.

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I can hardly believe I’m saying this, but volume 3 of GRLCHLD is actually available.

Officially, she’s on the online store starting at 9am Central, but if you click [[HERE]] you can get one a couple hours early (hehe).

It took me a while to get back into the groove of making the zine. I kept trying to set various deadlines for myself, ultimately failing…

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I’m off to a slow start today, but I tell myself it must be just that. Regardless of when I start, I must—the longer I delay the start, the later the day will go, but it must go. I must go.

I’ve had my phone on ‘do not disturb’ since last night. It was either that, or go off on a man I’ve been seeing, for suggesting I order myself a ‘lil treat from a pl…

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Always the same - roll into a small town, go to a thrift shop, but if I want to buy anything she gives me that look, the one that screams “your money is my money!” Quickly, I put back whatever secondhand item I’d momentarily fooled myself into thinking I’d purchase.

We never stay for long, her wanting to move on quickly. We always seem to continue the w…

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I can see myself on an island, far away—I’m puffy, and I’m puffing. I’m huffing and puffing my way up rocky coasts, I can taste the salt in the air, and I can feel my flabby arms chaffing against my bare sides. I’m wearing a swimsuit too small to possibly be marke…

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I know I’ve been quiet here.

Peculiar.

Honestly, this is the most important place to me - my writing is by far my most personally significant outlet, and frankly what I have always known is my strength above my performance abilities. I’ve always seen it as the backbone of my future (creatively, at least), it’s what I will go to when I am unable to do an…

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I received some really devastating news today.

I refuse to give anyone the satisfaction of hashing out details, but the long short of it is that backstock I keep talking about, of my physical work (my zines)… no longer exists. They have been “destroyed/gotten rid of.”

This news came this morning, just one day after making a pretty long jour…

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You can’t save something someone is actively attempting to destroy. It is no longer a rescue mission, but a battle to engage.

I let another touch me and couldn’t face the world for a week—what now?

I can’t save anyone or anything, let alone myself, and especially us.

Sad exchange:
23:07
X: are we fighting?
23:10
Y: No and nev…

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Little inventory note in between our regularly scheduled sob stories…

Down to 15 copies each of GRLCHLD Vol. 1 & 2 :)

Reminder, they are available HERE (you can click me, I am a link).

There are some physical printings of these that I miiiiiight get back one day, but I have no way of knowing for sure… so I am referring to these 15 as “the f…

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I held my breath through silence,
mistook stonewall for a stone altar,
thinking maybe if I bled enough
the cracks would seal.

But the house knew before I did.
T…

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