Technology feels so stupid now. Instagram is no longer a master manipulator. Shit is too obvious. It happens instantly that something I search takes over my entire “suggested videos” feed. Completely swaggerless. The subtlety is gone. I looked up conflict-avoidant behavior, and within an hour my entire Reels tab was Instagram therapists and 24-year-old “dating experts” giving me contradictory relationship advice. I search vegan lasagna recipe, and minutes later, every suggested video is vegan content creators telling me to comment “RECIPE” to get the recipe delivered to my inbox. It’s just too obvious now that I am being targeted. God forbid I click to learn more about a product. That product is all I’ll be looking at for the next week. It’s all just so…blatant…artless. The finesse is gone. It’s like “They Live” with no need for the sunglasses.

Anyway. I’ve been watching a lot of indie movies from the ‘90s and think we need to bring back describing everyday things as “oppressive”. Oppressive lighting. Oppressive atmosphere. Oppressive colors. It’s dramatic and pretentious and fun. My oppressive algorithm. I’ve been overly consuming disgruntled-twenty-something-in-the-early-‘90s-core. Slacker, Singles, Empire Records, Reality Bites. The classics. There was something artful about being jaded then.

Being jaded now feels so much more pathetic. Someone I follow shared an Instagram reel to their stories from a woman commenting on how social media is giving us brain rot by design. “Generations of potentially radical individuals are nerfed into becoming chronically online self-obsessed impotent chuds”. Wow. Great statement. So true. “By 2035 there will be more content creators in the world than construction workers”. Fuck. Yeah, this is bad. But then she ends her video letting us know she was once a budding environmentalist working in renewable energy. “I might have done something important. Instead, I shitpost on my story for a living.” She ends the video with, “Welcome to the New Age of the Brain Drain.”

Thanks for that warm welcome, I guess.

I don’t know. Self-awareness is starting to infuriate me. The culture has become so much more aware, but what is the point of that awareness if there is no real change? Sidenote: Wow. This must be how my therapist felt when I talked to him about my dating life.

Is a self-aware influencer better than a fully brain-rotted one? If knowing won’t create change, what will? Is feeding the ego really that much more powerful than caring for the collective?

The worst part is that I can’t blame her for continuing to participate in the thing she knows is ruining us, because if I did, that would mean I’d have to stop participating too. Of course I won’t stop, because my peers haven’t stopped. My friends are still there. Why am I going to be the only one who misses out? Cue the visual of the snake eating its own ass until we all die.

I wish I liked money more. A bunch of submissive men followed me on Instagram recently because of a clip I posted from my BDSM-themed comedy special. It was a clip I recycled because it references the Minions, which was topical for a brief moment once more (Minions & Monsters still in theaters). In the clip, I also happen to be trampling a man, stepping on his throat in my Doc Martens, which really excited a lot of foreign men with no profile pictures. The response from friends is that I need to monetize this good fortune. Make them all my paypigs or whatever. I’m sure I could get something from some of them if I tried, but figuring out how to do that sounds exhausting. I know if I were more money-hungry I would figure it out. I would play the game and send them all messages and demand tributes or whatever. I just don’t have it in me. When it comes to this shit, I don’t have that dog in me.

Money has never been my biggest motivator, which is wild to admit for someone who desperately needs money most of the time. Something in me rejects having an obsession over it. I don’t have fantasies of being ultra-wealthy. I have fantasies of being comfortable. Of being able to afford things like a new couch if I really wanted one, or a decent vacation. I just don’t aspire to have immense wealth. I’ve never thought of a mansion as my dream home. I don’t ever want to fly on a private jet. I would never want to spend $500 on a pair of sunglasses, even if I could. It’d be nice to live in a house with two bedrooms and a yard. At this point, it would take being a millionaire to accomplish these things (in Los Angeles at least), which is so sad and another reason to be nostalgic for ‘90s-era-college-town life. I could have bought that modest house for like $50,000 (which I still don’t have).

People love capitalism because it’s allegedly what fuels innovation. It’s what creates competition and keeps us motivated to chase wealth. Being okay with what you have is the enemy of capitalism. Knowing you could monetize every part of your life and choosing not to is what capitalism finds oppressive. My dad doesn’t understand why I’m a socialist. He thinks I’m falling for a scam. We are currently exchanging links via text arguing about food monopolies in the US. Four companies make and sell the majority of what we eat and drink, then repackage the same products to give us the illusion of choice. I don’t really have a choice in what I’m buying? All of the lettuce will give me explosive diarrhea? That’s capitalism succeeding?

Maybe it’s the Pisces in me. I have always been the daydreamer type. The chaotic optimistic who thinks the more practical aspects of life will figure themselves out so I can keep having fantasies about making movies and meeting aliens. I’m not deeply well-versed in astrology, but I know enough to believe there is something to it. I have a lot of water in my chart. A downpour. The water element is emotional, dreamy, mysterious, and intuitive. I am talking us up, sure (because there is a bad side to all of these things), but the more I learn about having a water-dominant chart, the more I really see how I am water through and through. The irony is I can’t remember the last time I went to the beach.

Well, those are my thoughts for now. ‘Til next time.

I love not doing shit. When I think about being in my purest state of joy, I don’t think about performing, or writing, or staring at the Grand Canyon, or being with loved ones, or whatever else we assume makes people happiest. I think about lying in bed with my iPad in hand, playing a game of “Tasty Travels” while a reality show I’m half-watching blares in the background. God, I wish I were doing that right now. That’s why I’m currently writing in the coffee shop by my apartment. Work-from-home can never actually be work-from-home for me. The bed always calls. I live in a studio apartment, so it doesn’t help that it’s always in eyesight. Seducing me. I must force myself to leave my apartment to be productive.

Ok so yes, I’m a 37-year-old iPad kid. I don’t know why I have an iPad in the first place. My mom must have offered it to me several years ago, and I must have said sure. It must have been the one she owned before buying a new one. I am the designated hand-me-down receiver in the family, because everyone knows I can’t afford to buy new technology. Anyway, for months I kept the iPad in my nightstand drawer, not really sure what to do with it until I realized that it would be the perfect device for me to “game” on. I like playing app store games. I play the same games your aunt plays while she waits for any one of her adult children to call. I don’t need complicated worlds or robust storylines or impressive graphics. I need whatever the fuck Candy Crush is. Though, I have pivoted from the match-three style of game to the merging style of game. These are games where you merge two identical objects to make a new object. The goal is to keep merging until you get to a specific one. I also enjoy the hole games where you start out as a tiny hole and grow the more you suck objects inside of you. These games can keep me occupied for longer than I’d like to admit. I’m relaxed in this state. My nervous system is regulated. My mind is at peace. I’m happy.

I have come to terms with the truth. My deepest passion in life isn’t to constantly create, it’s to do nothing. That doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy my creative outlets, but I resent the implication that if you pursue anything creative as a vocation, that means you are always happy to be doing it. I’m sick of the notion that to be a true artist, the art must consume you. I find the more obsessive people are about “creating” or “performing”, the more it signals a deep personal or emotional issue rather than them being some sort of prodigy.

Gone are the days I envied the “hustlers”, “grinders”, and “schmoozers” who use every opportunity to make their conversations and relationships about them, their work, and getting ahead. While we do live in a society that rewards them, I no longer wish to be like them, and I love that for me.

I do envy people with time and money. Simplifying it like that makes it sound too obvious. Who the fuck doesn’t? But, I guess it gets confusing when you’re someone like me. Someone who feels the pressure to keep creating because she has yet to “hit big”. If I stop now, it will be looked at as giving up. Slowness is what I wish I could afford. I wish I could do nothing and be creative when I feel like it. I mean, sure, technically, I can do that. But really, I can’t. Or maybe it’s that I refuse to, because I know it looks like giving up.

I am still a productive person. Reluctantly, though (a lot of the time).

Nothing feels better than when I have an idea I’m really excited about and am compelled to make it come to fruition in some way. There are times I’m so overcome with inspiration that all the right words flow out of me. I’m seated in front of my laptop for hours, letting all the thoughts spill gracefully on the page. These kinds of moments don’t happen all the time, though. They happen sometimes. They happen now and then. Most of the time, I have to force it. I make myself have an idea. I make myself make something, with varying levels of passion. There are times it is a true slog. An absolute struggle. Not just with writing, but with stand-up too. I’ve had plenty of nights where I was so close to bailing on a show. Hell, I’ve had nights where I did bail (but I try my best not to do that). I usually power through, despite every bone in my body telling me to stay home and spend another $4.99 on a diamond pack on “Tasty Travels”. I power through to do the show, and most of the time I leave happy that I did.

But why initially don’t I want to do it? Why is my first instinct to do nothing more than the thing I’ve deemed my calling? Does this mean I am a fraud? Am I always supposed to feel that fire? Am I less talented because I’m unable to consistently be so…inspired? These are things I worry about, yeah. But, I don’t know. I think burnout is more prevalent than ever, and we’re forgetting more and more that our brains need to recharge. We need to experience things to write about them. We need to develop interests, relax, learn, and socialize to have a point of view. The reality is, I can’t always afford that. But I am also tired of feeling guilty when I’m being honest with myself. I’m usually not in the mood, but hey, at least I’ll try and do it anyway. I will complain, yes. I will procrastinate, for sure. But, I’ll still do it. Probably. Sometimes I won’t, and I think that’s ok too.

Honestly, I don’t know if this Substack post is the best it can be. I feel I’m capable of better writing, but I’m also not one to obsess over the exact right words all the time. I’ve never chased perfection. Most work feels done to me when I’m personally done with it. If I have learned anything over the years, it’s that a lot of people don’t finish what they start, and getting it finished is a lot more impactful than getting it perfect. You know, as long as it doesn’t totally suck. I don’t think this piece sucks. I think I’m doing my best speaking from the heart, while also being very ready to shut off my laptop and walk home so I can catch up on, “The Real Housewives of Rhode Island”.

So that’s that. For now.

Most people now say that if you’re dating someone who isn’t 100% invested in you from the start, that means they don’t want to be in a relationship with you and never will. Viewing each other in these absolutes is meant to make dating less complicated. I always think about, “He’s Just Not That Into You”. The movie, specifically (never read the book). That movie really did a number on me. In my twenties, I lived by the word of it like it was the bible (also never read). Any sign of ambivalence or doubt is met with the harsh truth: he’s just not that into you. Occasionally, there are exceptions to the rule, but don’t count on being an exception.

That really stuck with me.

Sometimes I wonder if we are too quick to label someone as “not that into you”. Maybe someone really does need more time to figure out their feelings about you or about getting into a relationship? Do we not allow someone that time anymore? The ideal scenario is instant adoration. They’re as available as you are, and want to spend all their free time with you, and the relationship is formed quickly with shared enthusiasm.

But then we warn about lovebombing. A loverbomber behaves exactly how you want them to at first, but will abruptly end things or even ghost you. This could be their “thing”. They fall fast and leave fast. So, that’s also why we say it’s better to take things slow at first. You know, really get to know one another before jumping into a deep emotional investment. But if you’re only seeing someone once a week, without constant communication in between, that’s ambivalence. They’re not trying hard enough if they’re moving too slowly, which goes back to meaning that they’re probably not really into you.

How does a love-thirsty bitch win?

The most recent episode of my podcast, V Single, dives into this. Are we too quick to label someone we’re slowly dating a “situationship”? Are all situationships bad? Honestly, what even IS a situationship? Has the word replaced what was once simply called “dating”?

Give the full episode a listen below (or on Apple or Spotify).

It’s kind of dumb to go into the Lindy West drama at this point since every take has been taken. However, thoughts have been thunk on my end that are more inspired by the discourse and not intended to contribute directly. NOTE: I have not read her book, and I probably never will :)

I don’t want to go into the entirety of the events that broke the elder millennial side of the Internet, but basically, Lindy’s latest book is a detailed account of her path to becoming some version of polyamorous with her husband and their (?) girlfriend. There was cheating on his part, there was an “Eat, Pray, Love” type road trip on Lindy’s part, and the book concludes with Lindy accepting polyamory and being in a throuple. Many people online believe Lindy is acquiescing to intolerable behavior from her manipulative husband. They are convinced Lindy’s husband doesn’t really love her, and that Lindy is only staying with him because she is fat and insecure. Also, poly people are mad because they don’t believe this situation is a true reflection of polyamory. Lindy’s husband is mad because he is now an Internet villain. Lindy is mad because, despite all this attention, she hasn’t really sold that many copies of her book. Ok, I don’t know if Lindy is actually mad about that, but it seems likely!

Anyway, here are the things that I started thinking about once I dove into the drama myself. Take ‘em or leave ‘em.

Sparked thought #1: If someone believes they are truly happy in their current partnership, why can’t we accept that?

Why should we force someone to admit they are unhappy because we believe that’s how they should feel? When it comes to Lindy, I don’t totally buy that an intelligent, feminist woman in her 40s could stay in a marriage that is truly making her as unhappy as everyone is telling her she must be. Let alone write a book about it. I could be wrong, sure, and maybe every single one of the haters is right. I am willing to be wrong. That’s why these are just thoughts and not opinions.

The question still stands on its own, though. At what point is someone’s contentment with their life choices believable? Women, especially, are targets of this. There’s a hyper fixation on the belief that we are hiding something. We are not being honest about our feelings, or are accommodating other people’s feelings before our own. I understand that there is a long history of women’s subjugation that accounts for why these sentiments can often be valid, but, we’re all Girl Bosses now! Believe women!

No, but, for real, where is the line? Because, if someone insists you must be lying to yourself and everyone else, at what point does that stop being them having good intentions and instead become a moral judgement of your life choices? I find that even when I express a lack of desire to be a mother, I’m met with people telling me I don’t mean that. Why don’t I mean that? Why else would I say it? It’s condescending and infuriating. The level of reading between the lines, analyzing subtext, and overstepping that happens in certain situations when women are talking about their lives, and especially their relationships, can feel like misogyny under the guise of, wanting the best for you. Why is it so hard to believe a woman is living her life authentically?

Sparked Thought #2: What does it take to be in a life partnership? What does it take to commit to someone not just for a few years, but for decades?

We tend to believe our grandparents and older generations somehow did it so easily, while our generation is so quick to divorce. But, I know our grandparents must have had years of hating each other. Years of being bored and sick of the other. They had affairs and separations. Years of losing their sexual chemistry with one another. To be with someone for multiple decades has to be like that, doesn’t it? Previous generations may not have spoken about it, but we are. Maybe that’s the difference.

Societally, we have long been in a marriage disillusionment era, embracing divorce to prioritize our self-worth. Now we are trying to figure out how a life partnership can work while still prioritizing our self-worth. Though I don’t consider myself non-monogamous at this moment in time, I think I may be open to it one day. I think non-monogamy can save marriages as much as people think it can ruin them.

I’m trying to be understanding (in general) of how romantic connections can change and ebb and flow, and morph into other types of connections that might become less romantic than they were at the start. Does that mean the love is completely gone? Should it mean that? I really don’t know. I have never been with someone long enough to find out.

Sparked Thought #3: Like you’ve never stayed with a man who disappointed you in some way.

Honestly, this is the main reason I found the Lindy West discourse so annoying. I am constantly seeing women who date men tell other women who date men to stop taking shit from men -- as if they are not also taking shit from men. This is what it is to date men. You can act as though you would never lower your standards for a man, or never tolerate negative behaviors, but let’s be for fucking real. You probably have and still do. We all put up with shit. There are different levels of shit we put up with, sure, and yes it is good to point out when we believe someone is in a really bad situation. But, I guess it’s the smugness that gets to me. The vibe of, I know so much better than you, even though I am currently losing my mind over a man who hasn’t texted me in two days. I see harsh criticism without an ounce of empathy and a reluctance to acknowledge they, too, could be in this kind of situation, regardless of how confident, feminist, or independent they purport to be.

There is no such thing as the perfect relationship, and no such thing as the perfect person. We can grow and evolve and know better as we get older, but that doesn’t mean we still don’t make mistakes or have blind spots.

Perhaps the deeper frustration is how the Internet is forcing us to communicate in absolutes. Bold statements are more algorithmically pleasing, and our brains are further adapting to black-and-white thinking. Combine that with everyone thinking they are professional therapists because they listen to podcasts, and you have a population of know-it-alls who impart their wisdom in sound bites, preaching to: NEVER SAY THIS, DO NOT TEXT BACK, STOP ENGAGING IF, OF COURSE THEY ARE LYING TO YOU, YES THEY ARE USING YOU, etc. etc.

Something I hate about myself (while also believing is a good quality to have) is that I tend to immediately have some level of sympathy for the “villain” in certain situations. Shall I get into Scandoval? Probably not, but I will anyway. I was never 100% team Ariana, but at the time, it felt like saying anything against Ariana was basically admitting to the world that I’m a pick-me, red-pilled, “not like other girls,” toxic-masculinity-loving, man-apologist. When, really, I did think that the points Tom made were valid. I didn’t view Ariana as the angel to Tom’s devil. Plus, she was the most boring cast member of “Vanderpump Rules”. The forced adoration that came afterward irked me, to be quite honest. Does that mean I think what Tom did was ok? Absolutely not. He was in a secret relationship with her friend. That’s supremely fucked up. But, I guess I just didn’t understand the Internet’s immediate response of making Tom the most hated man in the world, and Ariana the most loved woman. The way we are losing our ability to accept complexities in interpersonal dynamics got me feeling a little…scared for the future…hehe.

Then again, what do I know? I am a 37-year-old woman in a situationship who’s still on her family’s cell phone plan. Maybe I really do want to be a mom! Maybe there really is no such thing as a happy throuple. Maybe romantic love really can last forever and never be challenging. I am willing to be wrong. Are you?

I want to lean more into writing down my thoughts as they come. I’ve been feeling both burnt out and underachieving. Sometimes I worry my brain is permanently damaged. I get into these paranoid thoughts surrounding my creativity and funniness, like, “What if I lost it?”

These thought cycles happen every few months. When my brain is fried and overstimulated, I worry I’m going to be stuck that way. I normally get over it and feel fine again, but now I keep scrolling and seeing headlines warning me that scrolling and seeing headlines will render me unable to think critically. Whatever that means.

I may for real for real be losing it versus just being hyperbolic and stressed out. The thing that’s destroying my brain is letting me know it’s destroying my brain, but I’m still letting it destroy my brain.

I should be more offline, but I can’t do it.

I tried to post a “trial reel” to Instagram and found out I wasn’t allowed because my reels can’t be recommended to other Instagram users. I am permanently shadow-banned, it seems, which makes my creative output feel pointless. I hate that I have come to rely so much on Instagram and this is how they repay me? All because I like to show my ass now and then? I’m an artist. My ass is my art! Fuck this shit. We’ve brought gatekeeping back in the most prude and bitchass way. Punk is truly dead.

We need to bring back public horniness. There used to be a respectable level of being a pervert that we found endearing and not creepy. The culture is becoming sexless.

Social media has made us lame. People live in fear of being “buried by the algorithm” to the point where we all just sound like fucking puritanical losers. I recently saw a TikTok where someone posted about Kathleen Hanna and wrote ‘Bikini Kill’ as ‘Bikini Unalive’. Fucking PATHETIC!!!!

I complain about this shit a lot, and I really hate that I do. I hate that I care. But, I still have dreams of being a successful comedian, I guess, and honestly, I even kind of hate that.

I think the biggest unhealed part of me is that I don’t know who I am if not “comedian” or “writer” or “person who talks about herself online”. Well, more like, I don’t know what’s likable about me if not those things. My deepest insecurity is feeling that the people in my life won’t care about me if I lose those descriptors. What else do I have to offer? I know there’s more to me than my creative output, and I know my closest friends will love me no matter how irrelevant I become, but it’s still something I worry about because that’s what happens when you have anxiety and quit therapy.

Something I’ve always envied about gorgeous, thin women is how they are essentially exempt from having to be interesting. I know this is a cliche -- to talk about how boring hot people are -- but I have always envied it. And you know what? I think they should be boring. It’s not fair to be hot and smart and cool. That’s selfish. I hate that there are hot people on my feed explaining Marxism to me or whatever. Uggos are supposed to be doing that.

It’s widely acknowledged that ugly people become hot if they are very talented and/or famous. Their talent and popularity radiate an aura that is perceived as hotness. The annoying part, though, is that this is really only true for men. Women are not able to manipulate the male gaze in this way. The female gaze is too empathetic.

In early adulthood, I genuinely thought men would flock to me if I showed off how cool and funny I was. Who cares that I’m fat? I’m so cool! Isn’t that hotter? Aren’t I attracted to “outisders” for this very reason? Because they aren’t as superficial as the normies?

I was such a dumb bitch.

Don’t get me wrong, at this point I have no regrets. I like the person I am today, but I do think it’s kind of funny that I unknowingly chose the path of most resistance.

I know I’m not “hot”, but I do find myself attractive. I think that’s why it’s so easy for me to talk about not being hot. Because I genuinely don’t believe it. I was in bed this morning, feeling the squishiness of my body fat around my hip and thighs, and I loved how it felt. I recently saw a candid photo someone took of me from behind and remarked how huge my ass looked. Again, I loved it. I like my face, but not always my haircut. I don’t know what to do with my hair. Sometimes I am still self-conscious about my stomach, but I am trying not to be. I see my stomach at certain angles and think it’s hideous, but at other angles I think it’s so beautiful. I’m not self-conscious about being on top, but I still don’t love it because it’s more work for me. That’s all to say, I like what I am working with, and I genuinely think larger-bodied women are so attractive.

On that subject, sort of, I think it’s interesting when I come across a video of a stunning, curvaceous woman showing off a cute outfit or bathing suit — the comments on her video will be from other women salivating over how amazing she looks. I always read through the comments and repeatedly see other women either envying or lusting over her. The men are nowhere to be found. If they are, they’re saying something demeaning and cruel — ridiculing her body size. I find this kind of man interesting. He is more inclined to let a stranger know he wouldn’t fuck her than he is to tell his own wife that she looks beautiful. I am assuming.

The culture is so sexless that men are taking time out of their day to insult women and ridicule other men for being “simps”. Men should be simps.

Yearning is missing from dating. Even if we do yearn, we don’t show it. No one is allowed to be a simp. It’s not just men at fault. Women pressure other women in similar ways. Women are told to date defensively. Don’t give him too much in case he ends up being a lovebombing, narcissistic, gaslighting, breadcrumbing, manipulator.

Flirting is a dying art form, perhaps. Men with good intentions want to be as respectful to women as possible, which is commendable, but you have to show some level of being turned on. We all want to feel like the person we’re dating can’t wait to rip our clothes off. Don’t we?

Sometimes I feel like the last horny person alive. I must live to tell the tale of when people in their twenties had one-night stands with people they met in dive bars, and blogged about hooking up with various fetishists, and had threesomes with their friends when they were drunk and bored. The memory dies with me.

I also recently saw a different video from a guy pointing out how submissive men actually are. Men are rule-followers who idolize other men telling them what to do. I don’t know how true this is, but it does explain the military.

Another trend I find interesting is the sheer number of guys on Feeld who label themselves a “Dom”. Some are ‘brat tamers’, some are ‘daddy doms’, some are ‘pleasure doms’, some are ‘soft doms’, etc., etc. I’m curious about the need for so many men to attach “Dom” to their sexual desires, even if their kink is truly just getting their partner off. Yeah this night is going to be centered around you and your pleasure, but it’s going to be because I said so! Do they really want to be in charge, or do they feel like they need to be?

All men are very capable of being attracted to fat bodies. But, because so many of them (white men especially) are submissive to their patriarchal overlords, they have been thinpilled. Turns out most of the billionaire false deities they have sworn their allegiance to are straight-up pedophiles. Can’t help but see the connection there. Of course women should be frail and hairless and never show signs of aging according to their beauty standards.

I’ve been trying to work a stand-up joke about how men who are into fat women should be more vocal about it, because it means they’re less likely to be a pedophile. They’re attracted to a more developed body that has back rolls and cellulite. They don’t want the child, they want their mom. I’m still working on it.

I recently turned 37. An age I never really thought about before. What is 37? The start of my late thirties? The older I get, the more I want to revert to my teenage self, but a better version of her. Teen me was freer and less corrupted by expectations. I did stuff because I wanted to do it and didn’t care what the outcome might be. I was interested in photography and made bad art. It was fun to just do things and express myself without giving a fucccck. In adulthood, I became more burdened by the fear of what others would think. Now, however, it’s moving back the other way. I’m just a 37-year-old teenage girl.

Last but not least, I’m watching “The Secret Lives of Mormon Wives” as I finish typing this, and I really hope Taylor heals the wound that keeps her going back to Dakota.

The following is an essay I wrote as part of a current art exhibition, “The Cosmic Egg”, on view now at the Philosophical Research Society. If you’re in the area, feel free to view the show in person and pick up the free zine version of this essay. This exhibition will be on view until Saturday, August 16th.

If you believe in manifestation,

should you believe in the Evil Eye?

If you believe forces or guides are protecting us,

what are they protecting us from?

If you believe in blessings,

do you have to believe in curses?

I grew up in a Jewish household of Middle Eastern and North African descent. My mother and her entire side of the family raised me to believe in the power of the Evil Eye. At a young age, I remember phrases and mentions of protection from it. If someone said something nice about me, my mom would wait for them to walk away, then put her hand over my face and spit three times. I was instructed to wear particular accessories; tied around my left wrist was a thin, red string. A silver or gold charm of a hand with an eye in the middle (Hamsa) was worn around my neck. The idea being that these items are able to stop harm from the Evil Eye.

The Evil Eye is born out of envy. When others want what you have, that's when they can curse you with it. Throughout my childhood, if anything bad ever happened in my family, my mom's immediate reaction would be to blame someone for giving us the Evil Eye. Often, she knew exactly who it was and why. People were on her list, and that list never ran out of names.

As a child, I didn't think much of it. When I got older and into my teenage years, things changed. I believed I could feel its presence. I suddenly saw the world the way my mom did. I was hyper-observant of the way people interacted with me. I was more careful about the personal information I chose to share. I started making my own list of names.

The irony is, I still loved and craved attention. I wanted to be noticed. I was an only child with low self-esteem and abandonment issues. Of course I needed external validation. I needed it bad. When it happened, I would at first relish the praise, but then quickly turn to fearing the consequences of being in the spotlight.

This is how my day-to-day life continued for the many years that followed. A constant back and forth from joy to panic. Confidence to unease. Optimism to distrust. I found it hard to tell even my closest friends about my accomplishments, or any good news at all, out of fear they might envy me. I was taught that the Evil Eye can be insidious like that. Even those you trust most, who you believe may want the best for you, can strike you with the Eye's curse. Consciously or unconsciously. Real fun stuff to tell someone whose brain is still in the process of developing.

Is it possible to live a life without ever being envied? There's always going to be someone, somewhere, who’ll want something you have that they don't. That's what's so fucked up about it. The Evil Eye gives immense supernatural power to a common human emotion. Granted, it's not an encouraged human emotion to experience, but it is common nonetheless.

Funnily enough, belief in the Evil Eye never stopped me from being envious of others. It wasn't until I started therapy that I even gave deep consideration to that. My therapist asked if I felt I had ever given the Evil Eye to someone. This inquiry genuinely blew my mind. Could it be? If others might not know they're giving it to me, could I be doing the same? I thought back to moments of envy I've had. There were friends I envied getting into romantic partnerships with men I believed to be just my type. There were peers I envied landing roles in TV shows and movies, or getting writing jobs I believed I wanted. There were strangers I observed on the Internet looking effortlessly beautiful while living in nice homes with big yards, showing off their high-end skincare products. I envied anyone who could afford to do their grocery shopping at the Farmer’s Market. Hell, even animals. How could you not envy the sight of a spoiled pet Chihuahua? To be adored and cared for, without having to do much in return, is my ultimate definition of "goals".

Could I have cursed all of them? Hundreds, if not thousands of others, in my lifetime? And the little dog too?

In early adulthood, I completely stopped being religious. I no longer believed in the God my mother believed in, but why did I still believe in her superstitions? Something I came to learn about myself in my mid-20s is that I have Purely Obsessional OCD. A type of obsessive-compulsive disorder characterized by intrusive, catastrophic thoughts. Any positive mood could turn in an instant if something triggered an intrusive thought.

Occasionally, it was a memory of a moment in my life that I was ashamed of. Usually though, it was an imagined scenario where I was responsible for something terrible.

For instance, one that often came to mind was me babysitting a toddler at a park. I’d picture myself getting distracted talking to someone or looking at my phone. In that moment of distraction, the toddler runs off and gets struck by a car or kidnapped by a murderous pedophile.

Why was this a recurring scene that played out in my head time and time again? That, I don’t know. I was not a babysitter. I was rarely around toddlers. I don’t even really like kids or want to interact with them. Maybe that’s why? Again, I don’t know.

It didn’t stop there, though. If I heard a news story about someone committing a horrendous crime, I would panic about the possibility of me doing that or it happening to me. If I thought about something like cancer and then saw the word ‘cancer’ while scrolling the Internet, I believed that meant I had it. If I felt like I was getting a funny look while driving, I was convinced I might have hit someone and killed them (and somehow didn't notice that happening, but the other car did). If a guy I hooked up with was ghosting me, I was convinced he had an STI and didn't want to tell me.

When these panics happened, I knew it was ridiculous. I knew I was being paranoid. Yet, my body still reacted as though my fears had come to fruition. My mind still wouldn't stop replaying the thoughts. They mostly happened at night. I'd wake up from my sleep and be overcome with a sense of doom. My mind would choose something to fixate on so I couldn't get back to sleep for hours later (if at all). This led to things like:

1. Making impulsive online purchases…like the time I bought a syphilis test at 4 AM because I was convinced I had rashes on my palms (which I read could be a symptom).

2. Texting people I haven't spoken to in months or even years just to ask them stupid questions about the last time we interacted, or to make sure they weren't mad at me.

3. Going down hours-long Internet rabbit holes until I found anything reassuring to dispel my fixations.

4. Talking to the God I told myself I stopped believing in and pleading with them to protect me.

5. Repeating phrases out loud, over and over again, to assure myself I was okay and that it wasn’t real.

6. Saging myself and my room.

7. Clinging to my protective charms, which now also included crystals like tourmaline and onyx.

I'd eventually wake the next morning a completely different person from the one who spent those hours panicking. Who was that girl? Certainly not me. Day-me was a level-headed and rational intellect. Day-me felt silly and embarrassed for making such a fuss over nothing. Then, night would fall once more, and the cycle would repeat itself. I was her again. Night-me. The crazy bitch.

You might be able to see now how the Evil Eye complements such an extreme form of anxiety quite beautifully. The Evil Eye may not have generated my anxious thoughts, but it gave me someone to blame. It gave me a reason to see why this worst-case scenario thing I was panicking over might be real. Because someone doesn't want me to be happy. Because I performed too well at a comedy show or wrote an article that went viral, outshone someone in a social setting, or did anything to anyone that triggered some type of jealous reaction. Any form of positive attention I received was how I justified the possibility of something tragic happening to me.

Once I got into therapy to address my anxiety, it was advised that I unlearn all the superstitions, which inevitably meant I was to unlearn spiritual belief.

See, I outlined to my therapist what I just outlined to you. I told him how I clutched my crystals in times of extreme anxiety, saged my room when I had negative thoughts, repeated phrases to myself to prevent bad things from happening to me, and felt a sense of impending doom if I went a day not wearing the red bracelet. Believe it or not, these habits weren't viewed by my therapist as me simply being the typical woman in Los Angeles.

These were my compulsive rituals. They were the physical manifestations of OCD, and they needed to stop if I was ever going to get better.

At first, I was resistant. It's not like I was doing the stereotypical OCD things I saw on TV. You know, like washing my hands repeatedly or flipping light switches on and off a particular number of times. I wasn't giving supernatural power to everyday objects or routines like that. My rituals were rooted in ancient beliefs and practices used by varying cultures for centuries. At the time, I feared that if I let these rituals go, it meant I was admitting that there was no truth to any of it. That there is no higher power. There is no mystery to existence and no mysticism in the world. I didn't want that.

Despite losing my religion (being a Jew more in theory than in practice), I could never ascribe to full-on atheism. There was always the desire to have faith that human consciousness and the existence of the universe meant something greater than pure happenstance. Even if it wasn't God, it was something significant and more meaningful than a random series of unobservable atoms crashing into each other until stars formed and that's that. To dispel these beliefs felt like a fate worse than neverending anxiety. It meant I was to go on living without awe. I would lose the part of myself that is uninhibited and curious and able to let her imagination flourish.

As much as that worried me, I kept going to therapy and kept forcing myself to prioritize my mental health over superstitious and supernatural beliefs. Simply committing to having weekly talks with my therapist changed me in so many ways.

Even when I felt like our talks weren't productive or like I wasn't being understood, I see now how that still did something to improve me. Yes, I am yet another millennial woman recommending therapy.

Most of the process feels like a blur. Over time, things just got better, and I'm still not entirely sure how exactly that happened. I can't pinpoint any one exercise or practice that helped me, and yet, I gradually felt more inclined to do the things I once feared. I shared my good news with others. I took off the amulets of protection. I got better at controlling the bad thoughts when they surfaced.

Over time, the catastrophic thoughts became less and less. Now, they rarely appear. When they do, they are far less intense, and I can better stop them from amplifying into panic-inducing outbursts. I think getting older played a part too. Most of what I feared in my twenties never came to fruition, so I guess my thirties have been a time of clarity about that.

So now, the Evil Eye has been defeated (mostly).

But what of my spirituality?

As much as I felt I was spiritual then, I realize now I was not fully grasping the concept. I think I was still viewing spirituality through the lens of organized religion. I thought there were set rules on spiritual belief and that beliefs have to be all-encompassing. If you believe in souls, you must believe in an afterlife. If you practice the Tarot, you must also practice astrology. If you don't believe in curses, you can't believe in blessings.

Truthfully, something transformative has happened since my anxiety lessened. I have become more spiritual, and that spirituality has been rooted almost entirely in my intuition and instincts. It's as though removing the surface-level fears and worries that occupied my thoughts has allowed the deeper and more true version of myself to flourish. By being in touch with my genuine feelings, I now understand things more intuitively without needing to overanalyze. There is a greater sense of simply "getting it".

That's all to say, I believe there is something to concepts like manifestation, psychic ability, synchronicity, spirit guides, and souls. However, I choose to comprehend these things my way…as well as aliens, parallel universes, different planes of existence, telepathy, and cryptids (but that's a discussion for another time).

I may still wear the red string around my wrist, but now it’s purely decorative. I can take it off whenever I like. I still occasionally sage and buy crystals and repeat mantras, but not like my life depends on it. Now I'll engage in it as a way to better connect with this side of myself, but with the knowledge that it's not necessary.

Overall, I've learned to let go and give in to whatever the universe has in store for me. It's a relief to lose control in this way. To do what feels good and what feels right without overcomplicating the details. In doing so, I've learned to be grateful. As I continue to foster this version of me, I acknowledge that it may have never happened if I hadn't believed the superstitions first. Maybe, just maybe, the curse was the blessing.

It’s the same old story time and time again. If I’m in a group setting comprised mostly of straight men, I don’t get looked at. I say something and am barely acknowledged. If I am acknowledged, they are quick to bring up their girlfriend so I don’t get any ideas.

Why have I experienced this? Because I’m fat.

Because if a guy doesn’t want to fuck you, you don’t exist. 

Women I interact with can be just as bad. They can be condescending, especially in not seeing me as a “threat” when around men. They call me “brave” when I post a thirst trap. They don’t include me in their aesthetically pleasing hot girl group photos. They have me as their only fat friend and don’t believe me when I try to talk about these things. 

“Don’t be ridiculous. That can’t be it. It’s all in your head”, they say. Well, if that’s what they really believe then tell me, why do they also fear being fat? Why is fatness something they worry about and obsess over? Deep down, they must know and see how fat people are treated differently. The men they interact with are consistently so much nicer and warmer and more giving to them. They know that they need this, even if they don’t necessarily want it. They know fatness will take this away from them. 

A very recent (albeit minor and insignificant example): me and a girlfriend met a man at a party. We quickly bonded with him in a friendly manner. At the end of the night, we both followed him on Instagram. He only followed my friend back, and not me. 

Who cares? Right? I sincerely don’t care at all. He’s just some guy. However, this is the sort of thing that happens all the time. All these seemingly insignificant exclusions happen over and over again until they are forced to become significant. They are forced to be something I have to deal with and suffer because of. 

I honestly feel shitty for talking about this. I hate bringing it up. I hate writing this right now. I don’t want to sound like some bitter, delusional, angry incel (which I’m not, because I do fuck). I fear I am perceived as someone who blames the world for her problems and doesn’t look inward. I loathe to receive the influx of well-meaning messages assuring me that I am beautiful, or that you’re attracted to me and that I only feel this way because I live in Los Angeles. Come to Omaha and you’ll be queen! This isn’t about how you feel as someone who knows and likes me. Hell, this isn’t even about how I feel, as someone who knows and likes herself. This is about the bigger picture. Being fat comes with social consequences. It affects me in friendships, in dating, and in my career. 

The reality is that attraction is tied to success, especially in the entertainment industry. I’m sure right now you can name a handful of fat women who are successful comedians and actors. Go ahead and do so. Now, as you struggle to think of more than four or five names (and believe it or not, that’s progress), I implore you to also think about the entertainers who aren’t fat. Now, how much easier is that game? 

I wish I hated myself. I wish I hated my body the way the world wants me to. Then, I would have done something about it. I would have taken any drastic measure I could to force my PCOS body to slim down. But, I can’t do it. I never could. I don’t hate how I look. When I see my reflection, I see an attractive person. Not flawless. Not perfect. But, also…not ugly. Sorry? 

The world wants me to hate myself so badly. For any woman to be okay with how she looks, regardless of size, is considered radical. That’s so fucked. I know I have my privileges as well. I am considered “small fat” or even midsize (depending on who you ask). I know that people with larger bodies than mine experience what I experience on a grander and more profound scale than I do. In fact, all women experience being excluded to some extent and for such a wide variety of stupid, sexist reasons. 

People often ask me why I do so much. Why do I insist on being a stand-up comedian, and on writing personal essays, and on dancing in a strip show, and now also on making a movie? There are many reasons. You know, like, because I enjoy it. However, I’d be lying if I said there wasn’t a deeper root cause. Buried underneath the enjoyment and creative fulfillment this brings is the knowing that I have to do all this to be paid attention to. This is how I get noticed. This is how I can express the feeling of neglect and indignity in a way that I hope others will both finally listen to and understand. This is how I try to have a part in creating some type of change. 

I know a lot of what you just read might come off as a bummer, which is totally my fault because yeah…I've been a bit of a bummer. Trust me though, I’m not trying to make this a sob story. I needed to give you this background information to also tell you this: the Alison Stevenson brand of “change” is to be horny about it. I’ve outlined the cons of fatness, but now, here are the pros: I have had all these years to learn so much about myself and to observe and grow so much as a person. This body has taught me a lot about the nature of attraction and sex appeal. 

So much of the stuff we tell ourselves is hot and not hot is completely made up and not entirely decided by us. You might think you’d never fuck a fatty, but is that how you really feel or just how you’re made to feel? The truth of the matter is, we are all capable of being attracted to way more people than we think. This should be exciting news for you. That’s more people to be aroused by. More people to hit on and flirt with. More people to enjoy being around and getting to know. Wouldn’t you rather live in this world than the world now that tells you an attractive person only looks one specific way? And look, even if you insist on riding the “no fat chicks” train forever, that’s fine too. You can feel that way but still let fat women be sexual onscreen -- in movies and other media (not just niche pornography). You can still allow fat people to be publicly loved and adored, even if it’s not for you. 

I want to live in that world, and I want to show it to you. That’s why I’m trying to get this short film made. I want to show how a fat woman can be confident in her body and can fuck freely and her weight doesn’t put a damper on the experience. In fact…it can even enhance it. Crazy, right?

Even after writing all this, I’m still not certain of anything. That’s another aspect of this film I love. It’s my attempt at showing you exactly how complicated interpersonal relationships can be for me and for other fat people who don’t always want to cry “fatphobia” when rejected or ignored, even when the evidence is quite compelling. Most of my romantic interactions are extremely confusing. Why do I have several platonic, dude friends who give me flirty vibes but never try to fuck me? Why is it so hard to break out of the situationship cycles I keep finding myself in? Maybe it’s because I’m fat, maybe not. Maybe that’s just part of it. I think what I like best about this film is the admission I’m making now: I make mistakes and, again, can’t be certain of anything. I follow my instincts and try to trust my gut as best I can, but it’s hard to know what other people are feeling about me and it’s hard to not see when I’m possibly being overly sensitive or reading too much into things like some people might think I am. I want to show you how I can be both confident and doubtful. Analytical and impulsive. Self-assured and nervous. Funny and sad. I want to show this part of my life and get all these ideas and contradictions out there. I may know my shit to an extent, but I am still very perplexed by a lot of other shit.

Perhaps if more people out there were given more opportunities to take in art that encouraged them to think about these things more deeply, I’d finally have some solid answers. At the end of the day, that’s what this is really about. Me getting some fucking answers. Just kidding. Sort of. 

Well, let’s make this horny, funny, slice-of-life little film and go from there. 

Our fundraising campaign for “So Do We Keep Fucking?” ends in two days, and we’re still in need of money to reach our goal. Please consider contributing whatever you can to help us make this movie. Your support is greatly appreciated, and will not go unnoticed! From the bottom of my heart, and from everyone on the team making this, thank you!

On its face, the reasons I chose to pursue comedy are clear: I like to laugh, I like making people laugh, and I genuinely enjoy storytelling and performance. These are all the basic, surface-level requirements for pursuing the profession of stand-up comedy. But recently I was forced to ask myself why I really chose to work in this impossibly challenging field. I’m talking beyond the hehe and haha’s of it all. Deeper than, “Because I just love it!” What kind of person yearns to be center stage and in the limelight? What does it say about me that my passion is dependent on being seen? 

The easy answer is narcissism because people don’t really understand what that is. But okay let’s go with it (the watered-down version that just means you’re really into yourself). Is every performer who pursues some level of fame or popularity a narcissist? Is this a creative passion born out of vanity? Yeah, maybe a bit. Maybe more than a bit for others. However, I think it’s too reductive to answer that with an outright yes.

A few months back, I spoke with my therapist about my frustrations with my creative projects and the pattern I keep finding myself in. I put my time and energy into something, celebrate its arrival in the world, and then it kind of just flatlines… like my Audible Original, Like Mother. Exciting for a few weeks, but now living in relative obscurity. Then my low-budget, DIY, comedy special goes online… to little fanfare, despite my best efforts to get it noticed. I post clips and reels and participate in the social media hustle, to no avail. Rarely does my work get any substantial amount of “heat”. 

My therapist then said something that punched me in the gut. This isn’t an exact quote but it was something like this: You’re always going to feel disappointed if you’re doing it for attention, and not for the sake of doing it. 

Well, he got me there. It’s like I forgot what I was doing any of this for. I’ve put myself in a state of caring more about the outcome than the product. Is making art about the response you get or is it about making the art itself? I’m not asking that rhetorically, I want to know the answer. One can argue that as long as you’re creating, that’s all that should matter. Making art is satisfying in and of itself and, in theory, that should be enough motivation for creation, right? 

Part of me wishes I was this kind of person. Someone completely devoid of needing any form of public approval. What a wonderfully secure attachment style this person (who I’m not totally convinced exists), must have.

Back to my previous question though, about whether or not art must be seen? After giving it some more thought I’ve decided that whatever your art is, yes, it does need attention to be paid, in some form or other, to be complete. 

I think our definition of attention is warped. In an age of so many people competing for it, attention has been getting an increasingly ugly reputation. It’s lumped in with the likes of vanity, self-centeredness, egotism, and narcissism. However, attention on its own, in its simplest form, is quite neutral. It can be all those shitty things, yes, but it can also simply serve as an acknowledgment of an act of creation. A way of connecting people or even a method of showing respect. It’s how information is spread. Attention is needed for change and transformation. 

One could even argue it’s more selfish to hide your art from the world because art (even stand-up comedy) is inherently communal and is designed to bring people together and create space for folks to gather and share. Its purpose is to be out there -- spreading feelings or ideas -- or to just be a fun, dumb thing that distracts you from being barraged with other, less artful, feelings and ideas. 

But in all honesty, I don’t feel like I’m always creating in such a community-minded way. I think I’ve been using some of my artistic output for more self-centered reasons. Not self-centered in the stuck-up, egotistical sort of way (well, not entirely). No, my thirst for attention is much more pathetic than egotistical, although equally cliche: I seek validation. Needing the approval of others to feel, well, valid. I desire to be a person worth knowing. I want to be seen as valuable – someone you put stock in and care about. I, and many of my peers, live in a city we can’t afford and pursue a dream that capitalism has mutated into a horrendous competition that tells us we don’t exist unless we’re famous. And if we give up on that nightmarish game, who will love us?

Not to be cliche, yet again, but I experienced emotional neglect in childhood. I was an only child living with two parents who fucking hated each other. Not a day would go by for the majority of my youth that they wouldn’t get into a screaming match with one another. My response was, in turn, to keep to myself. I could be alone in my room for hours, with my little white TV/VCR combo that I wish I still had today. While they yelled and essentially ignored me and all my needs in the process, I watched a lot of fucking TV by myself. I wasn’t always alone, though. I had school. That was my place to shine. I always wanted to be the funny one in class, the teacher’s pet, or the best at something, so I could experience the feeling of being seen. 

Now, at 35 years old, nothing fucking changed. Who am I, if not a writer? If not a comedian? Who would want to be around me, or spend any time with me, if I wasn’t impressive in any way? I am obviously simplifying very complicated feelings, but that’s the gist of it. This is the monster I need to defeat: myself. 

If I’m using my creative energy merely to fill some void within me, I am never going to be happy. And no, that’s not creating art for the right reasons. My work is never going to be enough if I don’t feel like I am enough. If likes and shares are the motivation for creating, what are you really making? If I want people to like me because they’re impressed by what I do, what kind of human connection even is that? This isn’t how thoughtful work is made, and it’s not how meaningful interactions are formed. 

I think of self-esteem as a many-layered, spiral staircase that I’ve repeatedly had to climb or fall from, only to pick myself up and begin the ascent again. At this very moment, I consider myself as getting back up from a slight fall. In doing so, I am ascending to a new tier, one that is shedding the need to be “popular” in order to be “cool”. More pointedly, I’m shedding the need to be widely seen in order to be valid. Better yet, I’m telling the little girl who so often cried in her bedroom alone wishing someone would care about her that she is, she always has been, cared for and loved -- and none of it is as conditional as she builds it up in her mind to be. 

When I was happiest writing and performing was when I was able to obtain that perfect blend of needing but not actively seeking, attention. I’m doing this work because I love it, and also because I want people to see it, but maybe making a true big-money career out of this (which requires constantly having to strive for extreme popularity) is just not in the cards for me. Lately, I’ve been circling back to the Alison I was in college and early adulthood: releasing a zine with my comedy show Loose, making VHS tapes of my Special, working with a local AM radio station to host an esoteric talk show through my day job, and acquiring new hobbies and interests that I don’t feel the need to post about…overall, embracing physical media again and caring less about social media. It feels SO good to care less about social media in particular -- the place self-esteem goes to die.  

The entertainment industry is at a very low-low right now and so many of my peers are embracing the attitude of just doing shit yourself. They’re eschewing the lengthy process of trying to “package” and “sell” themselves, only to be told, after years of a life lived in limbo, that the project is not going to move forward. Of course, a lot of these DIY efforts are also “proofs of concept” ready to be discussed at any meeting you throw at them, and yeah, that’s how it has to be I guess. While I understand that Cash Rules Everything Around Me, when it comes to my art, I’m stepping away from chasing that paper (would gladly let it fall in my lap though, should it ever choose to do that).

I want to put more effort into fostering a genuine, community-minded, punk ethic, and less of the performative crap that, underneath it all, is still desperate to be monetized. There’s a reason I create, even during my bouts of depression, and even though I rarely get the outcomes I hope for. Something about this work just calls to me, and the more I remove myself from the industry rat race, the more I fall in love with doing this simply for the sake of doing it. 

A few months ago, I was mindlessly scrolling TikTok when I first noticed it: the algorithm was showing me video after video of Onlyfans creators participating in a trend at the time. Participants, all women, highlighted the money and material rewards their “spicy” content has given them -- IE, a new house, a hot car, luxury vacations, etc. It was a fun way to participate in something “hashtag-trending”. Creators could promote their business, while also basking in their success. Everyone making the videos appeared to be in good spirits, confident and proud. But then I went straight to the comments (a habit I need to stop doing) and was shocked to see an onslaught of (presumably) straight men doing what they do best:  ruining the good vibes. Comment after comment was men insulting these women and mocking their success. Remarks in the vein of, “you’re going to regret this years from now” and “get a real job” and “good luck finding a husband” show up repetitively in all of these videos.

Now, I am fully aware that the glamorization of sex work is a whole thing in and of itself to unpack. Trust me, I know very well that it is not guaranteed to make you a millionaire. However, that’s not what I want to get into right now. What I want to get into is what I felt upon reading comment after comment from men insulting these women with so little regard for the sheer dehumanization of their judgmental remarks. Call me naive, but I truly was taken aback. I knew there’d be some, but it wasn’t just a negative comment here and there. On many videos, it was an overwhelming, hateful, majority. 

Recently, I was reminded of this again when the brother of Miley Cyrus (who apparently is a musician as well, but, who knows) posted an image of text with the caption “Only Fans”. It was an idiotic diatribe warning women of the dangers of being on Onlyfans. No man will want to wife you…men will not value you…you will never have a family…He even adds that any man who ethically pays for pornography is a “desperate loser”. Interesting take, Trace (yes his name is Trace).

With the growing normalization of sex work comes the reactionary hordes of those who oppose it. The rise of Onlyfans, and similar sites, has put sex work in the mainstream more than ever before -- while also broadening the definition for many as to what constitutes as sex work. Now, it’s easy to write off the opposition from men in particular as something like jealousy or bitterness toward women able to profit in a way that seems, to them, “too easy”. This monetization, and occlusion, of sexual content also brings up the fact that many men are irate at the thought of having to pay for something they believe they deserve free access to, on demand. And yet, while this all is true, I think the larger picture of what’s happening here is even more severe than that. What I believe is the root of this is deeper than anger. It’s fear. 

Women are more independent now than we’ve ever been in the history of womanhood. We are truly living in an age (in Western society) where we can live long, fulfilling, and satisfying lives without men. In the past decade or so, not only has our independence grown but our self-awareness as well. We see our worth and our value on a larger scale and are learning, with greater understanding, our boundaries and emotional needs. We are better encouraged to prioritize ourselves and our mental health ahead of the social pressure to first please men. We’ve worked to obliterate the myth that rejecting marriage and/or traditional motherhood roles is somehow selfish or undesirable. Many women still want these things of course, don’t get me wrong, but not just any man will do anymore. He needs to be the right man. There are still too many men who don’t get this aspect of our collective frustration. Many of us still desire romantic and lifelong partnerships but are finding it hard to meet men who can appreciate that our standards have been raised. We want an equal partnership with men who understand our needs and want to contribute more than just financially or on any other surface level. It’s on men now to become partners we want and that shift is creating a new type of anxiety for men.

The men who are angry and afraid -- who don’t want the status quo to change -- now appear to be doubling down on the only thing they really have left to hold over us: slut-shaming. Regardless of the many strides feminism has made, sexual freedom in all its forms is still somehow lacking in not just acceptance, but also respectability. Both feminists and misogynists have historically agreed on this: being a slut is bad. One side viewed it as objectification and feeding into patriarchism, while the other side viewed it as lacking self-respect or the ability to be a proper wife or mother. 

Naturally, feminism in its many waves has grown more and more accepting of sex work over the years, acknowledging that the system needs to change moreso than those participating in it. Letting women have more agency in their sex work while also prioritizing female pleasure has altered how we view women in sex work. However, I still find that, collectively, our society holds antiquated notions about the morality and virtue of any openly sexual woman, sex worker or not. To be a woman who prioritizes her sexuality and shows off her sexual prowess is still viewed as vapid, vain, or vulgar. You must lack depth or self-awareness, to be publicly participating in such a private thing and thus, even if your openness with sexuality is considered valid in theory, in practice it’s not actually respected. 

One of my biggest pet peeves over the years of being a self-proclaimed “slut” is the amount of judgment I’ve felt from other women. Even if there is a vocal show of support, there’s still an air of condescension. Lots of: 'It’s fine if you do it, but I could never…' I’ve experienced my own friends making fun of other women who show pictures of their asses, knowing that’s something I’ve totally done. The implication being that it’s desperate for attention or narcissistic. And it can be, sure, but so can posting a picture of a dumb meal you ate or reviewing an arthouse film you watched or a blog about your vacation no one cares about. Everything we post is vain. We are all seeking attention, one way or another. That’s why we are addicted to social media, and have created a hellscape that only grows wider and deeper and continues to permeate our everyday lives in ways that are probably really bad for us but, you know, too late now. So why is the sexual kind of attention-seeking the bad kind?

Even when it comes to having sex, when I hear other women exaggerate how they feel bad for missing out on one-night stands because they simply can’t hook up with someone unless there’s a deep, emotional connection -- part of me wonders how much of that is really the case? Demisexuals, I  know you’re out here and you’re valid and all that, but I also know in the past -- when I have claimed to feel similarly -- it was because I was slut-shaming myself before doing any actual slutting. I had years where I would get into deep anxiety spirals, guilting myself about my random hookups, convinced they would lead to my downfall. I understand it’s not for everyone, and I’m not trying to encourage you to fuck a stranger or whatever, but I implore you to really dig deep and ask yourself why you really think you’re not the “kind of girl” to have a “random” hookup (that is safe and consensual of course)? When I dug deep, I knew it was because of my own slut-shaming and internalized misogynistic messaging that made me believe I was being “used” and thus, devalued by society. Maybe that could be the case for you too. Look, all I’m really saying is, it’s fun to fuck and being single shouldn’t stop that from happening. If I’m being “used” well, so is the guy who has my pubes stuck in his teeth.

Because the Madonna/Whore complex is still our collective norm, slut-shaming holds power in ways that other kinds of woman-bashing no longer does. These men going extra hard on the slut-shaming now must instinctively know this. Insulting us for being an “unmarried spinster” or “childless loner” or even “ugly” doesn’t have the same power now that it might have decades prior. Insulting us for being a “dumb slut”, however, still does. 

The good news is, it’s still a losing battle for them. The sad reality is that, right now, it’s at the part where it gets worse before it gets better. We will be seeing a lot more angry comments and videos of neckbeard podcasters spewing absolute garbage in a desperate attempt to make women care about their opinions. But just know that all of this is just clearly their fear over loss of control. 

At this point you may be wondering, how can we end the battle quickly? By supporting sex work openly and vocally and acknowledging the internalized slut-shamer within. For every “you’ll never be a wife” comment throw in a, “good for her”. You know, stuff like that.

Look, being horny is never going away. Trust me, I’ve tried to tone it down, but really it’s like opening a can of Pringles. Once you pop, the fun don’t stop (please tell me you remember these commercials). Those who want to make the most of their sexual prowess, and pay for a house or car with the power of their horny fanbase, should be able to do so freely and without shame. These creators should also be acknowledged as multi-faceted human beings with complex lives and thoughts and plenty of other strengths and skills to boot. 

On a larger scale, the complete normalization of sex work (along with decriminalization of full-service sex work) will eventually force an even more powerful thing to happen: men will change for the better. I really do believe this. It won’t happen in a day, but it will happen eventually. Because at the point slut-shaming has no effect on us, they truly will have nothing left to do other than finally accept that the tables have turned. They will have to find ways to attract us outside of simply holding power. Once an openly sexual woman is able to be seen as more than just a sexual object, and is able to live a life free of public shame, her personhood will be established, acknowledged, and respected. The Madonna/Whore complex will erode because, frankly, we are all Madonnas and we are all Whores. The hypocrisy we’ve had to endure for eons needs to vanish. Sex shouldn’t be a whiplash dichotomy of both shame and love, all at once. Having sex shouldn’t be both socially taboo and encouraged -- if only because that confusing message is so damaging to the healthy development of children and young adults. If you want to see how that damage plays out, IRL, look no further than the comments section on any spicy creator’s social media. 

So what I’m here to say is, it’s time we pick a side. On one hand we have a dying culture of repression and misogyny and on the other, we have a future of empowerment and independence. So when you’re asked to choose, the choice is obvious…choose to let people show you their butthole for money and don’t make it weird, ok people?!? 

It’s embarrassing to admit now but when I first started comedy, at the young and dumb age of 22, I gave myself a five-year plan. At the time, I believed wholeheartedly that I would be starring in a Judd Apatow movie within the next five years (it was a different time, forgive me). I thought quite highly of myself, which is pretty necessary for such a pursuit, so no harm there, but I also naively thought that the industry was actually pretty easy to break into with the right amount of talent (lol at my dumb ass). As time passed, and it became clear that starring in the “Knocked Up” sequel wasn’t happening, I still thought that, by 30, I would at least have a TV show. Then 30 hit…  

While I’ve tried pitching several tv shows, most of them were concepts I wasn’t extremely passionate about but were deemed “sellable” by my then-manager. And yes, you guessed it, they were all variations of being a twenty-something Fat Woman trying to navigate single life with her close friend group. They went nowhere. So, instead, I started a strip show for fat women. Talk about a hard pivot. Fast forward to the present day and I strip, work whatever side jobs and part-time gigs I can get, slut it up online for my Stevensimps, and continue to perform comedy at small theaters and bar shows. Hell, I’m still losing money every time I perform, and you know what? I fucking love it. 

Admittedly, I used to hate this grind because I never saw it for what it was: Freedom, complete autonomy. Self-fulfillment. Self-actualization. Instead, I only saw the struggle. A life lived on the low rung of the ladder to Success. Would 22-year-old me be disappointed in her life over a decade later? On paper, absolutely. If you told her we still haven’t achieved the coveted Network Television Show or starred in Big Time Movie or been offered Major Book Deal she’d be sobbing on the floor asking where everything went wrong? She would demand to know what bad choices she’d made that led to this lack of Success. 

People constantly told me when I was younger that, one day, I would regret the choices I was making. I’d regret the tattoos. I’d regret talking so candidly about my sex life. I’d regret posting revealing images of myself. While those doomy prognostications scared me back then, if anything, I’ve only leaned into these things more. I continue to live this way because I have no regrets. This is who I am. I’m just growing more and more comfortable being myself and by that I mean, a fat slut who likes to be both sensitive and a bitch. That’s something 22-year-old me would be proud of. That’s something current me is proud of too, despite living in a studio apartment I can just barely afford. Turns out, being myself means I’m not so appealing to a mass market and it turns out, I am very okay with that. Something I’ve come to realize is, perhaps my former definition of Success hasn’t happened yet because I don’t actually want it. I prefer to stay under the radar if it means I truly get to be me. 

What do I want then? I want comfort, some respect, and the opportunity to create the stuff I like to create without restrictions. Obviously, I want people to appreciate what I do–any entertainer is absolutely lying if they say otherwise–but I don’t look at fame the same way I did then. If anything, I see fame as a necessary evil in order to become wildly successful in this field and, for me, becoming wildly successful isn’t a priority anymore. 

I have a comedy special, VubiTV+ Presents: Alison Stevenson: Horny Bitch: A Comedy Special, coming out Friday, August 4th. I wanted it to be nothing like a traditional stand-up comedy special. The concept stemmed from this image: While on stage, I announce to the audience that I need a stool, then a stagehand joins me onstage. He gets down on all fours and becomes my stool. I sit on him for the duration of my set. Well, from that one image, an entire “plot” was constructed involving four different service subs joining me on stage while I perform my stand-up for an hour. Not only that, but there’s even a B plot where the entire special is produced by a fake streaming platform owned by ExxonMobil called VubiTV+ complete with an opening introductory video by the VubiTV+ tech bro CEO. 

The process of bringing this to life was life-affirming on so many levels. The amount of creativity that can flow from having no rules, no boundaries, and no one to please other than yourself, is astounding. Especially thanks to the collaborative effort from people who joined the project knowing there wouldn’t be a lot of money in it. We all worked together to make this, and I am truly so grateful that I managed to attract such people into my orbit. From Derek and Eric who were down to make a ridiculously fun introductory video about a fake streaming platform, to Katelyn who was down to play a marketing executive for that platform and give an opening speech to the audience in attendance, to Sam who co-directed with me and helped bring to life the various dom/sub vignettes between my stand up. 

Then, of course, there are my loyal “subs”, Taylor, Mike, Jack, and Binks. They endured rehearsals in sweaty ski masks and beautifully executed their roles come showtime. Austin, Justice, and Nash filmed, edited, and video-directed the entire thing with the little money I could give them. Again, I’m stunned by how well everything turned out, and how I left the Elysian Theater that night so damn proud. This isn’t to say it was perfect. It’s not perfect. And yet, it still kind of is. The imperfections are what make it special. I don’t believe in trying to hide flaws. If something’s good enough, the flaws don’t matter. To me, this special is good enough. 

So we made this weird wonderful thing and now, a year later, it’s ready to be seen by the public. This of course means that I had to spend weeks promoting it. I’ve been working hard at that and in doing so, inadvertently came across a legion of Twitter Haters, flocking to the trailer to talk shit and be tragically and predictably, complete and utter trolls about it. I’d share some screenshots, but I blocked most of them and don’t have it in me to unblock them in order to see their shit-talking once more. Suffice it to say, most of it was about me being unattractive and fat but also too sexual (which I guess means I can’t be funny?)

I’m not surprised by these reactions. 

People think I lack self-awareness. As if I do everything that I do fully believing I am palatable to a mass audience. I know there’s not a chance in hell I’ll ever be on SNL, or whatever the fuck comedians strive for these days. I know that’s not me. I post my naked fat body knowing this. I perform my comedy knowing this. I made my BDSM-themed comedy special completely aware of this too.

That’s why I really don’t care when misogynist mouthbreathers tell me my comedy is “stereotypical female comedy”. You know, because It’s about sex and evidently that’s all women talk about (which is apparently a bad thing). Something I’d love to ask these very people is, why does it really bother you to hear a woman talk about her sex life? What is so off-putting about a woman giving her perspective on dating, or relationships? How is it so much worse when a woman does it versus when a man does? Could it be that it’s because women are critical of men in these bits? Could it be that your anger stems from taking things personally? Lighten up, I thought you could take a joke!  Sidenote: even my own “alternative comedy” peers, who like to think their material is more “elevated”, will look down on material of this nature and it’s like, why reject something that’s so deeply part of human nature? To me, all stand-up material is just the same 3 jokes told over and over and if you’re good at what you do, your joke is presented in a way that doesn’t seem like that’s the case. But, it still is. So, in other words, get over yourself. 

Anyway, back to the real point I’m trying to make. When the term “hot girl comedy” was floating around, I knew that, though I’ve technically been what this term is referring to for years, I wasn’t who they were suddenly talking about. Why? Because I’m not “hot”. My exhibitionism and dominating aura are not the kind of “hot” that gets attention (for better or worse). If I had tried to be the “hot girl comic” they’re referring to, it would have definitely helped me. Maybe now I would be Girl Boss on TV Show as, Likable Fat Woman Who Still Hides Her Stomach. 

My special doesn’t utilize sexuality in any way that pleases men. I’m being a dominatrix in a world that wants women to be submissive. I’m a pillow princess. A greedy, selfish lover. I don’t care if you come. I’m fat and I like it. I know you think I’m ugly and it doesn’t bother me. I think you’re uglier. Etc. Etc. 

This is not the messaging that gets you “booked and busy” in a field that is still largely male-dominated and even more largely a market that still caters to men’s desires above women’s. Does that make me a cookie-cutter? Fuck no! But to understand these nuances would require complex thought of which most Angry Twitter Men (and their lost women allies) are incapable. To appeal to the masses, you must be dulled down to just a nub of what was once a sharp idea. Everything has to be carefully spelled out, and a boundary can only be pushed if a test market deems it acceptable and “higher ups” with nothing but dollar signs in their eyes give it the green light. 

As the years go by, and I become less and less appealing to the very industry I was once so desperate to please, I feel a wonderful sense of freedom. I’m sick of the rat race and of trying to make myself palatable to people who I don’t think will ever truly get me and, honestly, maybe I don’t want to be…got. Would I like financial stability and some opportunities to do things on a grander scale? Sure. I’m human! We all want that shit! Will I be distraught if that day never comes? No. Because I am already living the dream. Oddly enough, I had to finally wake up in order to realize it. 

This is a sponsored post paid for by VubiTV+ in an effort to promote, “VubiTV+ Presents: Alison Stevenson: Horny Bitch: A Comedy Special”, premiering online August 4th at 7AM PST. If you found anything in this newsletter resonating, relatable, or life-affirming we sincerely apologize for the inconvenience. Our intention was purely to promote the special to an audience of less than 1,000 people who subscribe to this newsletter. 

It’s worse than ever before. Of course, I am referring to my love life. What else would I, Alison Stevenson, be complaining to you about? This time around, I am focusing on how frustrated I am over the lack of romance in my life. Okay wait, yes, you're right, I have written about this before, but I promise you it’s different this time. This time around, it’s not only about me. At least, I don’t think it is. 

Mind you, I don’t lack sex, or sexual attraction, or physical intimacy. I lack romance. I lack that deep, intimate, connection with someone special. I lack the spark, and that’s what I want. I want to meet someone I’m enthusiastic about who is just as enthusiastic about me. 

What is the spark? First off, don't confuse a spark for lust. It’s not just about instant physical attraction, that’s just being horny. The spark is just as much mentally invigorating as it is physically. It doesn’t have to be an overwhelming feeling, but there has to be a base level of excitement connecting us together. The spark brings a happy, positive feeling. You click. It’s not love at first sight, or some extravagant, corny, romcom stereotype. The spark is earnestness, it’s fervor -- and that’s why it’s so clear when it’s missing. Where has the spark gone?

I can’t be the only one experiencing this, right? The general dating climate feels so disjointed lately. It’s as though there is no real purpose to dating anymore. Now more than ever it feels like dating is just something to do. It’s gotten to the point where I’m not excited in the lead-up to a date, I just find myself hoping it’s not dreadful.

What scares me is that this isn’t about romance being dead in the more conventional, superficial, sense. I’m not talking about not being wined and dined at fancy restaurants or what have you. I’m talking about having the desire to bond with another person on a deep emotional level. Where has that gone? I keep meeting man after man who seems not to crave such a connection. I don’t get actively pursued, and no one is committing to plans. There is a general passiveness toward dating in an age where dating is, theoretically, the easiest it's ever been. As my therapist would say, there’s no “positive charge”.

Perhaps it feels worse now because I have changed as well. I am not willing to tolerate apathy like I did then. I used to try and make connections happen due to my own scarcity mindset. I wanted things to work because I feared I wouldn’t be able to meet another man who had at least some of the qualities I was looking for in a partner (despite their abundance of qualities I wasn’t looking for). I guess you could say I’ve grown? I feel better and more sure of myself than ever before. I like who I am, I take care of myself, and I’m highly motivated. I find that the other connections in my life are very satisfying, despite not being romantic. I feel good about my creative output. My work is more successful than ever. None of this has rewarded me in dating, if anything it might be making things worse?

Believe it or not, men are lonelier than ever. A Pew research study published in February of this year noted over 60% of men under 30 are currently single. Psychology Today lists varying reasons for why they think this is, such as: Men, currently in their late-30s and older, “Could reliably depend on women’s disproportionate investment in emotional and sexual attachment. Traditional masculine gender scripts, with a tendency toward avoidance of attachment, were suboptimal but functional in this constellation of relationship dynamics.” 

This is a very mental health professional way of suggesting that women used to more willingly put up with men being emotionally stunted and avoidant. For example: I recently spoke to a friend who told me about an adult man she knows who is in his mid-thirties. She told me he’s single, lives alone, and has never cooked a meal in his life. He eats fast food every day. Every. Single. Day. Mind you, this man is also successful in his creative career. He has money and discipline. That discipline doesn’t extend to learning how to work a stove, though. Men like this have their act together in a sense, but still somehow choose not to take care of themselves in the most basic of ways. This is what we mean by emotionally stunted. It doesn’t mean you laugh at fart jokes (which are pretty objectively funny). It means you refuse to grow in a way that shows you can care for others. 

More and more women are acknowledging these shortcomings as red flags. What used to be viewed as a potential “fixer upper” is now viewed as an, “abort mission”. These men can be appealing in many ways because they also identify as feminist and reject toxic notions of masculinity but, at the end of the day, don’t have the wherewithal to be there for a romantic interest in a truly equal partnership. These are the men who still rely on women to be their caretakers, whether they realize it or not. Just the notion that I would have to introduce fresh vegetables to this grown-ass man? Hard pass. 

As the article continues, “Men could have increased their relationship skills to close the effort gap. They could have confronted their relative avoidance and challenged the gender norms that made them so anxious about intimacy.” Men could have made those healthy emotional choices, but they chose not to. Instead, they dug deeper into virtual worlds (cough *porn* cough) and became more detached from human connection entirely. Men are finding it a lot more convenient to simply jerk off to sex on their computer screens than seek out real-life sexual intimacy.

The effects of choosing porn over people are cited in this same article, with the author writing about a rise in, “Psychogenic-related erectile dysfunction, delayed ejaculation, and diminished libido in men under 40 years old...” Hey, didn’t I write about dudes not keeping it up just a few months ago? I didn’t blame porn though, rather I discussed the anxieties men face around casual sex in a new social climate -- which we now see is why men may be turning to porn more. So, it does all come full circle, unfortunately. 

Though the statistics suggest that young women are more coupled-up than men, it doesn’t specify who these women are coupled-up with. Other women? Much older men? So, what about those of us single women dating men who are more or less in our own age range? We are feeling the effects of men detaching themselves. It’s gotten to a point where openly voicing a desire for a deep romantic connection feels frowned upon. Outwardly expressing longing for love is either desperate, cringe, pathetic, patriarchal, or antiquated. 

Look. I want the spark. I want making plans to be easy. I want to meet someone and we can both look at each other and say, “This feels good”. Here’s what we need to start talking about more: Love is not just a feeling, love is a choice. It doesn’t just happen when you least expect it and magically solve all your problems. That’s bullshit. Love happens when you decide you want it to happen. What happens though when you make that decision, but no one around you seems to have done the same? I feel like I’m floating in a sea full of single women who watch men approach the water but they don’t dare to dive in.

Currently, I am only actively pursued by men who are clearly fetishizing me for my larger body, or see me as a purely sexual entity rather than a whole complete person. And yes, I know that I often sexualize myself, but blaming me for being fetishized because I sometimes post thirst traps says more about you than it does me. I’d like to think people are evolved enough to not write a woman off as a sex fiend because she occasionally shows a sexual side to herself? I am a well-rounded woman who doesn’t hide her feelings. Sometimes those feelings are horny. 

When I’m not being fetishized by men I’m not attracted to, I find myself being extremely underwhelmed by men who give me nothing. I’m on my usual grind of swiping but finding fewer and fewer men who intrigue me. I cringe at reading bios now: “Looking for new friends who can feed my addiction to cuddling”. Fuck off. What the hell is “relationship anarchy”? Why are you taking three days to respond to me asking how your day was? When, through the drudgery, a date does manage to happen, the conversation is stale or forced. Almost every guy I meet is vague about what he wants and even when I tell myself that’s fine, let’s just connect with this person, well, that becomes just as much a chore. There is little-to-no mental stimulation. They’re not being funny, or fun, or interesting. I’m exhausted trying to force connections in people who feel so hollow; who lack anything substantial to say and feel like the definition of watching paint dry, but in human form. 

Look, for the sake of not being the subject of an angry men Reddit thread, I’ll emphasize this: I don’t think these men are actually vapid and boring. Well, not most of them anyway. But, there is a clear lack of enthusiasm that makes it feel this way. This is what happens when you deprioritize working on bettering yourself and instead suck yourself deeper into self-pity and depression. I can see it happening right in front of me. Men are not okay. We need to confront this, for the sake of all of us. 

Where does this leave me? Well, I’m done with being disposable. I resent how hardened I’ve become. I resent having lost hope. I resent being proven right time and time again and being stuck in these inescapable patterns. The only silver lining from any of this is the sigh of relief I have from no longer feeling like it’s my fault. I’m sick of self-blame. There’s hard evidence to prove what I’ve been feeling for years and that feels validating. So now it’s time to come to Jesus. 

This is your wake-up call, fellas. Women like me are prepared to stay single for as long as we need to. We don’t need men in our lives, not like we used to. We modern women now prioritize ourselves. We put more focus on our careers, our personal growth, and our friendships. We are less willing to spend energy trying to fix someone who should already be doing that for themselves. We have greater agency and higher levels of understanding of what it takes to be a good partner. The pressure is on men to become desirable to us. There are two ways forward: you can be bitter and angry and keep distancing yourself from real human intimacy because change is hard. Or, you can accept that you might have to put some real work into yourself in order to be more appealing to women. This work includes being less self-involved, less superficial, and more giving. I urge you to take the latter route, please.

I want the spark to return. I want dating to be fun again. Apathy is not the way into my heart or my pants. Not anymore. Guys, make the choice to love and be loved. 

There are so many things about me and my life that I can’t seem to take a firm stance on. I am of two minds about so many things- particularly in the realm of spirituality. A prime example: I own a large amount of crystals and even though I tell myself their “abilities” are bullshit, I keep buying them anyway. I often play the devil’s advocate in my own private debates. In therapy, this kind of ambivalence is discussed as part of my anxiety. I used to think that being raised to believe in superstitions was the root of my anxiety, but I’ve come to understand that I’ve clung to, and inflated, these superstitions because of my anxiety. My clever illness found superstitious belief to be an ideal framework for perpetuating and exacerbating my anxious feelings. 

The Evil Eye is something I was always warned about as a child. Not only my mother but my grandparents, and other relatives on their side of the family, would frequently warn me of unknowingly attracting this curse. I was given a red string to wear around my wrist from a young age. The color red being some sort of protector from the curse, of course. This then grew to necklaces with eye charms and a hand-shaped symbol called a Hamsa. All given with the sentiment that they were there to protect me. My mother and grandparents often placed their hands over my face and spit three times on the ground while reciting something about salt, water, and fish. This was also to protect me (FYI - it’s more like pretending to spit than actually spitting). The list goes on but, the point is, constantly being told I needed protection from an ever-present curse that could originate from anyone I encountered was the perfect potting soil  for a garden of all kinds of catastrophic beliefs later in life. 

You see, the Evil Eye is what happens when someone envies you. Different cultures have different ways of interpreting it but, in my Sephardic Jewish household, the Evil Eye was all about envy. Don’t show off, because someone envious might curse you for it. On the bright side, this does instill the importance of  practicing humility and avoiding being braggadocious around others, or whatever. Good stuff to be aware of. But on the less bright side, living with this paranoia also instills fear and distrust in even your closest friends. Can I tell people about my good news without anything going wrong? Who can I confide in that’ll truly be happy for me? 

My time in therapy has been spent learning to better manage my anxiety and, in doing so, unlearning superstition. In particular, I’ve been learning how to handle the pesky little Evil Eye in my head…which I still capitalize as a form of respect…and even though I know that’s silly it just feels rude not to. As you can see, there is still a lot of work to do.  

Despite not being a religious Jew, like my mother, I can’t help but feel I’m somewhat a spiritual person. I’m simply unable to subscribe to atheism. I mean, I don’t want to be a damn atheist, and not just because Ricky Gervais annoys the shit out of me. I don’t like the rigidness of it; the joylessness. It’s no fun. Deep down, I really want to believe there is something going on with humanity, and our existence, that’s more than just circumstantial or coincidental. With every scientific truth uncovered about our existence and how our universe functions, come new unanswered questions. I am of course on the sidelines, gathering just bits of information and trying to understand it all as best I can. Dark matter, dark energy, deep time, black holes, etc. I really don’t know shit past the basics, but I see how believing in the possibility of something unproven is actually quite prevalent in science. I believe in things I can’t prove and oftentimes these beliefs are upsetting but, just as often, they can be quite uplifting. 

I want to believe in souls and spirits; in fortune telling and psychic abilities. I want to feel our ancestors watching over us and protecting us from harm. I want to be cleansed after lighting dried herbs on fire and bathing in the smoke. I want to believe that I can manifest a better life. I want to believe there is a greater purpose past ‘just living’, and that death is not just rotting in the ground. Can I be this person, though? Can I fully lean into the beauty without also leaning into the bullshit? To let myself completely go, and believe in all that, I would have to keep entertaining the Evil Eye, wouldn’t I? Would I have to keep knocking on wood and storing that black tourmaline, “protection” stone, in my purse (and in my head)?

So logic tells me to call it quits. To let it all go for the sake of my mental health. I should stay grounded in rationality. Be pragmatic. Sometimes this is appealing. There is something nice about detaching and viewing life as completely meaningless. We’re here until we’re not and that’s it. Make the most of it while you can. Focus on the things you can control. Yadda yadda.

Let me give you a perfect example of how this conflict keeps conflicting. About a decade ago, I was assigned to write an article about bringing a psychic medium to a famous Hollywood hotel, seeking to channel Marilyn Monroe’s spirit. Back in the day, Marilyn had lived at this hotel so, naturally, her spirit must still be hanging around. I found someone online who agreed to take part and, the minute he arrived, the only thing I could “feel” was the immense amount of horseshit emanating from his attempt to talk to Marilyn. Of course she was “present” and of course she communicated some very obvious things about her death and addiction. None of it was intriguing enough to convince me this guy truly had a “gift”. However, there was something I left out of the article when writing. 

At one point in the evening, the medium turned to me and attempted to channel my relatives like he had with Marilyn. I figured this would be difficult for him because I am not very close to most of my extended family, and have very few close relatives to “channel”. He initially spoke of my grandfather, on my dad’s side, a topic he could tell I wasn’t fully invested in because I hardly knew the guy. However, he continued speaking of someone coming through who died of something related to the liver. He then said this person was in the military. Definitely a man and not my grandfather. He added a few other things I can’t quite remember, but I kept telling him that I don’t think there’s anyone in my family like that, so we called it a night. 

Later, I asked my dad about who, if anyone, the medium might have been referring to. I’d remembered he had an older brother - one I never really knew - and so told my dad about the mystery spirit. I soon learned that my dad’s brother was indeed in the military and died of liver failure and this was something I didn’t know and it definitely felt a bit eerie. To add to the eeriness, when I was a teenager, I remember randomly asking my dad about this same uncle of mine. I never really knew him and just had basic questions like where does he live, how old is he, etc. I don’t know why I was suddenly curious, because my dad never talked about his family other than his two brothers who I already knew and spent time with. I hadn’t really asked my dad much about his parents or other siblings, and was raised to consider my main family to be the people from my mom’s side. However, for whatever reason, I was curious that day and my dad just told me a few quick things about him and we quickly moved on from that conversation, thinking nothing of it. Then, the next day, my dad got word that this brother had passed away. He told me about it and I remember thinking how weird it was that when I finally thought to ask about my estranged uncle, he goes and dies the next day. 

It’s easy, and probably more factual, to write this off as pure coincidence. Lots of middle-aged men have liver problems and were in the military. My asking about him, a decade prior, only for him to pass the next day was probably just happenstance. And yet, what if it’s not? What does it mean if it’s not? That’s what my mind can’t help but entertain. What if there is some intangible connection between this man and me despite never having the chance to bond with him while he was alive? From the little bit I do know about him, he had a hard life. Out of respect, I won’t get into the details, but there was a good amount of struggle. Maybe a part of him is still here? Maybe there’s something, yet to be scientifically observed, that happens in death in which something like a spirit continues to exist. Maybe that spirit feels a kinship with me and maybe I feel it too. 

I mean, maybe not…probably not. But, I think it would be nice. I like to live in an, “it would be nice” state of mind from time to time. Every Friday, my mother lights Sabbath candles – something she makes me join her in if I'm visiting. She tells me to pray for what I want in life, to ask God for health and happiness. It’s a ritual that’s been in our culture for thousands of years and one she continues to participate in with an unwavering faith that there is meaning in the act. She believes that God is listening to our prayers. When I take part in this ritual, I do not pray to the same God my mother prays to. I pray to the unknown, to whatever it is that may, or may not, be guiding me in life. I pray to something beyond our grasp that might one day be revealed… but most likely will remain hidden. I suppose, at my core, I want to have faith, but I want faith without Faith. I want faith without trinkets and charms and “good luck” versus “bad luck”. Maybe I’m right where I need to be with it all, believing and disbelieving at the same time. Maybe it’s ok to remain uncertain about the big picture, while continuing to work on rejecting the impractical, more detrimental, beliefs that have done me mental harm. Maybe that liminal faith is not wrong at all? Maybe. 

I can live with that.

Author's Note: I've tried my hardest to be as thorough and accurate as possible. I combed through text messages going back to January and even re-evaluated all of my dating app matches from this year. I’m sure there may be a person or two left out, but it’s safe to say this is pretty comprehensive. I mean, it’s not like this shit has to hold up in court or whatever. So for the purposes of this article please accept these stats as factual. Now, let’s get into it.

A Remarkably So-So Year:

Over the course of 2022, I matched with: 183 men on Tinder, 57 men on Hinge, and 29 on Feeld (this since redownloading it two weeks ago). I also briefly used Bumble and OkCupid, but didn’t want to reactivate my accounts just for stats and I didn't go on any dates from those apps anyway. I still have Hinge for whatever reason, despite never going on Hinge dates. On Hinge, Bumble, and OkCupid, I am overwhelmed by basic normies, start-up bros, and self-proclaimed “moderates” (aka republicans who want to fuck leftist chicks), which is what makes these specific apps much less appealing. That is really saying something, considering the extremely unappealing nature of ALL dating apps.

In terms of actual dates, the year started off slow, with some traction gaining in March, reaching a peak in June, and tapering off again in July. November actually reached a new peak and this trend is still going strong since redownloading Feeld. 

This year, I went on 24 First Dates: 18 were from Tinder, 4 I somehow managed to meet IRL (analog), 1 was a DM slide, and 1 (recently) was from Feeld. I was actually supposed to have another Feeld date last night, with a new person, but he called in sick. Yes, from 183 Tinder matches, only 18 made it to actual date status. That is how bleak this shit really is. 

So, out of those 24 first dates, 10 made it to a second date. From there, only 5 were in the ever-elusive category of “3+ dates”. The longest period of time I dated someone was approximately two and a half months. We still kind of kept hooking up after we stopped officially dating. The same goes for about three other people on the list, including one I’m still hooking up with now.

Reasons For Termination:

I think you already know why most of them ended. If not, here is a clue, I’m a single woman in Los Angeles and I’ve talked about this a million times before. Still unsure? Well, I'll just spell it out for you: The men don’t want to be in relationships. Whether it’s bad timing, or they just got out of something, or need to work on themselves, or whatever, “Not Looking To Be In A Relationship” was my most listened-to excuse this year (as well as all previous years). This excuse was given to me by 9 different, emotionally unavailable, men in 2022. 

Believe it or not, there are other reasons things flopped in '22. Here are the rest:

• 6 were mutual fade outs/no follow up from either of us.

• 4 were men I broke it off with.

• 2 live in a different state or country and were just visiting (more on those later).

• 1 did not want to date a comedian. The twist: he is also a comedian.

• 1 ghosted me after we tried to have sex and he couldn’t get his dick hard.

• 1 was someone I formerly dated who still has the same commitment issues as last time, but we both thought maybe it would be different this time (it wasn’t).

Some Fun Facts:

1. I spent approximately 535 minutes being eaten out by 7* different men. That’s nearly nine hours of cunnilingus! (I originally posted 11 but that was a mistake/number for a diff category I didn’t end up including).

2. While 3 different men spoke about Steely Dan, only one spent an entire 35 minutes explaining to me their brilliance in excruciating detail. I still let him eat me out. 

3. I listened to approximately 100 minutes of men complaining about their ex-girlfriends, one of whom was still living with his ex at the time. I let him eat me out as well.

Stand-Out Performances:

I met up with someone from Tinder who was just visiting/lives in a different country. After introducing him to Ranch dressing, and having sex with him, he met another woman two days later who he is now engaged to (they got engaged within the same week that they met). I only know this because I happened to be following her on Instagram, and she randomly started posting him in her stories, including announcing their engagement. Mazel.

Another someone I met here in Los Angeles, visiting from New York, would talk to me on the phone nearly every day leading up to a trip there I already had planned. The day after I arrived in the city, he impulsively decided to visit Canada. My dumb ass still talked to him for like two weeks after that. C’est la vie!

Honorable Mention:

Though we didn’t have an official date, shout out to the guy who canceled what would have been our date by sending me this text message. It went semi-viral, and a friend of his piped up to say this was his buddy and that he is currently “going through stuff”, which very appropriately excuses the act of fucking someone you don’t respect because they are geographically closer. My only hope in life is that the other girl also saw this and immediately stopped talking to him. 

Now, The Serious Junk:

So, what is the point here? Why relive these memories? Perhaps because of what I said at the beginning of all this: we have to laugh through the pain. Sharing this shit is cathartic, both for me and for those who can relate to the drudgery. After sifting through the data, I was surprised by some of these figures myself. Going through all of my matches this year, and having to count each and every one, was the biggest shocker. If you asked me beforehand how many men I matched with on Tinder this year, I would have guessed something like 50. Definitely not nearly 200. 

The whole experience really does put into perspective how much reducing someone to an image on a screen takes away their humanity. Conversely, how it must take away my humanity. What am I to these guys other than a collection of pixels, but with a hole you might maybe get to fuck? Part of me hates reducing my dating life to a series of stats and graphs. I see how it further adds to the dehumanization of all this. At the same time though, these are statistics based on real lived experiences.  A real person mansplained Steely Dan to me. Multiple sets of real lips ate my pussy. Etc. Etc. Maybe this is the next phase of our evolution. Real physical interaction cannot be devalued or destroyed, but it can be mitigated by an algorithm first. 

All in all, I met real people and had a few solid connections in 2022. As much as I, and others, joke about dating being a miserable hellscape, there are positive outcomes. Even if I’m on a bad date, I still like that I went out and gave it a go. I still enjoy meeting someone new and having that willingness to explore a connection if it’s there. I gain more strength and greater independence from these largely failed interactions. So, in that sense, they are rarely true failures. 

I’ve written about my singledom before, and I might be repeating myself here, but I need it to be clear every time I write about this that even though I want to be in a relationship, I don’t hate being single. Well, for the most part. 

A few weeks back, I was wallowing in self-pity, complaining to a close friend about how it seems to always be so easy for her, and so many of my other friends, to get into long-term relationships and stay in them for years at a time. Her response actually gave me an entirely new perspective. She admitted that she was codependent. She will try to make relationships work in ways that compromise her own priorities, and she cited a few other mutuals who are similar. That’s not to say they don’t love their partners or aren’t happy in their relationships, but they need to be in these relationships in ways that I don’t. They will make sacrifices they probably shouldn’t be making in order to stay partnered. I hear it from others as well. People I go on dates with often tell me they should have left their relationship a lot sooner but were afraid of loneliness, or didn’t want to upset that other person. In these instances, I am reminded how relationships are not the secret to a happier life. They aren't the antidote to sadness or loneliness. They can even exacerbate those feelings. 

Yes, there are plenty of shit times when it comes to dating. What I’ve gone through in only a year is more than some people have had to deal with in a lifetime. There’s lots of dumb crap and many annoyances. Even some pain. But, at the end of the day, I still revel in my fortitude. All of it is preparing me for something special and right for me. Someday, someway. 

Heads up, this is a super heteronormative piece examining casual sex between men and women. Know that everything I am talking about here is from that perspective (my perspective).

The lore about casual sex, even in 2022, is that men can do it more easily than women. We’re told women will always want a relationship, even if we say we don’t, because we inevitably  “catch feelings”. I gotta admit, even I used to believe this fallacy. In my twenties, I consistently wanted to date the men I was sleeping with but, honestly, I didn't even really know them well or like them all that much. Looking back at these guys now, I can’t help but shudder at the thought of getting into a serious relationship with almost any of them. They were just some dudes, ya know? And, yet something made me cling to them after we fucked. I built these men up to be Gods on Earth as opposed to just, you know, a guy named Patrick who wants to listen to Husker Du on repeat while he sweats on top of me. But why? What was the reason for my instant clinginess? I’ve come to understand it wasn’t feelings, it was slut-shaming. I convinced myself I had to have deeper relationships with these men lest I be perceived, both externally and internally, as a filthy slut. I thought it was my duty to be more than just a fuck, no matter who it was with. 

In general, women are made to feel bad for having any kind of good time – sex especially must have meaning or a higher purpose or we become meaningless and devalued. Thus sleeping around, even if not “shameful”, is positioned as a personal failing because of the perceived emptiness of the act. We sleep with guy after guy because we’re weak and don’t know how to say no, or because we need the validation it brings, or because we have issues with our father. (I have mommy issues, thank you very much!) Even progressive and liberated women I know and respect will utter phrases deeply rooted in misogynistic thinking regarding how I shouldn’t ‘give it away so easily’ or that I should ‘have more self-respect’. Or, even more insidious comments about how these men don’t deserve it/me. While that’s intended as support, it still positions vaginal sex as some precious commodity being forfeited, not something to partake in purely for pleasure purposes. 

Frustratingly, it’s been mostly these women in my life who have made me feel bad for my one-night stands and random hookups. I get it, I understand why so many women are hesitant to approve of, or indulge in, such behavior.  For women, sleeping around isn’t allowed to be about the physical sensations of hot sex. We’re not permitted to enjoy it with someone we don’t love. When we do, we’re still not really allowed to talk about it unless we are prepared to face serious repercussions from incels and trolls and older relatives who suffer brain rot from endless hours of Fox News. I mean, look at just how different it is between the genders. Men, generally, are shockingly chill about hitting it raw and hardly ever getting tested, while women have to write blog posts in defense of their sexual proclivities. Men don’t face the same kind of judgment and moral panic we do because they’re allowed to be hedonistic. Therefore, they’re allowed to have a much more laissez-faire attitude about fucking (but please, fellas, get tested regularly). 

I understand all this, and you probably do too. I promise I’m not trying to patronize you. Just have to do the necessary preface before the revelation of my new bullshit. You get it, right? Ultimately, the point is, thank fuck I got over it all. I grew up and faced my deepest darkest demon: mama horny. I like to fuck and have my clit sucked and I don’t need to have a deep emotional connection with the person I’m enjoying it with (another claim I hear a lot). We can be cordial, we can be buds, we can be two horny people who meet at a bar. Is that a damn crime? No! Well, except for one time in a public elevator. In the years since I’ve quelled most of my anxiety around casual sex, and no longer do things like convince myself a man ghosted me because he must have had syphilis and didn’t want to tell me (most of my intrusive thoughts were around STI’s because my anxiety brain deemed contracting one the ultimate punishment for being a slut). 

I don’t slut-shame myself anymore (and part of that is always practicing safe sex). But not long ago, I was conflicted about being casual. Why had sex been feeling ~weird~ again, like it did back then?  Why had I been experiencing unease and even some sadness from it? I ask, but I already know the answer. Ready? Here it is. I had casual sex with the wrong person and for the wrong reason — as a consolation prize rather than getting what I really wanted from him: actual emotional intimacy.

Crumbs of attention no longer suffice when what I truly desire is the whole damn loaf.

I recently dated someone (albeit briefly) who I was excited about. We had a good dynamic and, I don’t know, something was there and I caught feelings. Of course, a few weeks into it I hear what I almost always hear from men in Los Angeles: “I’m not trying to get into a relationship right now”. As someone who maybe holds the world record for being told this phrase, I am no longer surprised or even hurt upon hearing this. It’s par for the course at this point. I expect it, even. Obviously, I always hope maybe this time it will be different so, yes, it can still be a bit of a blow. 

It hurt this time because I really thought this guy was different. The vibes felt like he really liked me. I mean, he even told me he really liked me. So, you know, I believed it. Well, when the vibe suddenly shifted, and the prospect of a relationship was no more, he still graciously offered me the opportunity to continue hooking up with him. What a mensch! I’m always torn in situations like these. I am beyond thinking I can change someone’s mind or feelings. I knew that if I agreed it would just be hooking up and nothing more, and I told myself I was okay with that because why not have someone to fuck as I continue my search for an emotionally available man? God knows it will be a long, tumultuous search. Might as well get some dick in the process, right?

After a few weeks of doing ‘the casual thing’ I had a come-to-Jesus moment. I thought hard about our interactions. My revelation? The sex sucked. It was lackluster. Disappointing. When it came to me and this guy, from the start, the actual hooking up was the worst part. Sex wasn’t what made our dynamic work, and to now make it all about that left me wondering, “why am I doing this?” It wasn’t awful, but it wasn’t…great. I don’t blame him nor do I blame myself (this is me being very mature because young Alison would have 100% blamed him). It was the sort of thing where I could see it getting better if we put more effort into it, and actually seriously dated, but we barely saw each other enough as it was, and I didn’t have the energy for all that. 

So how much of this was me actually wanting to fuck versus me really wanting the before and after that fucking brings? We all know the answer to that. I did what I promised myself I would never do again. Accepting the bare minimum from a man for the smallest bit of emotional intimacy and using (mediocre) physical intimacy as the means of getting it. This is precisely when and why casual sex can suck. This is the exact situation in which we shouldn’t be doing it and especially if we ain’t COMING HARD.

So, it all came to a stop. Well, more like a slow fade-out. I stopped texting. He stopped texting. We’re still friendly, sure, but everything else is over. And, guess what happened only a few weeks later? I hooked up with an old acquaintance, for whom I have no romantic feelings, and it was some of the best sex of my life. I felt great afterward, and will probably do it again. No feelings attached and with the express purpose of physical pleasure, which I got a good helping of. This is when sex, casual or not, is ideal. 

This is all to say: circumstances are everything. Sex is malleable. It can be deep and meaningful and sacred but it doesn’t have to be. It can also just be fucking. Your relationship with casual sex can change over time, from situation to situation, and person to person. To believe that casual sex is impossible for you is a valid opinion, sure, but maybe also not? I urge anyone who thinks they “can’t” have casual sex to really examine why they feel that way. Do you simply not enjoy the sex in these circumstances or are you afraid to? If upon examination, you’re still not into it, that’s totally chill and I guess I’ll go ahead and respect that. But then I would urge you to refrain from casting judgment on the rest of us fun sluts who do partake in being eaten out by kind gentlemen, freshly out of some relationship, who don’t want anything too serious right now but would love to be sightly suffocated by a pair of thick thighs on a semi-frequent basis. You see, that kind of judgment creates a cultural fog that fools some of us into thinking we are wrong for our desires and, frankly, we’re not. I am a full-on horndog, and that’s okay.