I got my ticket for the motherfuckin long way round, ok? And by that I mean I woke up, spritely, at 9 AM, and before putting contact lenses in my eyes or my plum-colored frames on my face, I booked a 60-minute deep tissue massage (and cupping) at a parlor on the cursed West Side, for 11 AM.

So I put on Brandy boxers, kept on the james K tour tee I slept in, and headed out. I stopped for a coffee, and though that may seem un-zen, an un-fitting activity before a relaxing massage, I must remind you all that the girl writing this used to pound two Red Bulls before her 8 AM classes freshman year, then hit the hay as soon as lecture ended. My body is a unique one. I don’t think I’ve been able to nap since that time. My caffeine consumption has remained constant. Hmm?

48 minutes in the car, with the company of cold brew and Good Noticings. Suddenly, I’m in a strip mall in Mar Vista. Stewing in my car and scrolling, texting Joan and Bea and Taylor, until my way-too early arrival became a little more acceptable. I walked past patrons of Noah’s bagels and a way-too clean looking liquor store, and went inside.

I responded to a work email while peeing. In the bathroom. Then stripped behind white, slotted double doors and hopped into bed face down. The masseuse, who would become my savior, stepped in and confirmed my 60-minute deep tissue. She did not mention the cupping add-on I had clicked the box for online. I reminded her of it: she looked at me like I had 8 heads. She called in a friend, and the pair told me they’d do 30-minutes of strict massaging, then incorporate cupping for the latter half. Sounds fuckin fab to me.

I don’t like massages; I think this was my third ever. My first was in Albany, and I think I was just really uncomfortable being freshly 18 and hating my body vibes and had, like, been naked in the company of another before, but not that much. The second time was in Japan, and I was a girl and also in a foreign country. I was kind of ok with doing anything in Japan; there were absolutely no consequences. This time, I was still half asleep and have been feeling like it’s been too long (three weeks, give or take) since I’ve been nude with company. Am I being weird? If I am, I don’t care.

​She got to work, and fuckinnnnnn killed it. No joke, this lady was on all fours on my back on the massage table. Like full body weight. And that’s not saying much (I have no idea how to guess people’s weights, which is weird, considering I’ve been a lottt of different ones recently), she was small.

Suddenly, her coworker’s footsteps came closer from behind the doors. She entered, and her perfume came with her. There was a natural, beautiful combination of scents between the two of them. They started going ham on me; one applied the cups while the other never let up on truly getting into my hamstrings and calves.

I booked this appointment as a result of what I think is a pulled glute or lower back injury from running. Marathon training is beating my ass, frankly. Nevertheless, she persisted, which in this case I’ve decided means taking up to two full weeks off and focusing on recovery and being myself. When I am physically healed and stir-crazy enough from staying out of motion, I will have the comeback of the century. A girl in a band I interviewed last weekend said “Words are spells”. Yes, she was born and raised in Los Angeles. No, I wasn’t. But I’ve been here four years now, so I think I’m allowed to internalize that kind of rhetoric.

She dragged the cups along my back before sticking a set of probably 12 of them in different spots. The dragging was painful, honestly, and my teeth started to grind. I think I moaned once or twice, and she asked if I was hurting. I said no. I think I may have drooled through the face hole in the massage table. Once again, don’t care. I was living.

Up and at ‘em, I changed back into my boxers and tee. My hair was a mess from the scalp segment of the massage. I wouldn’t have it any other way. I returned home, flicked up my new marks in my bathroom mirror, and showered for work. Fuck, that hit the spot.

There is Joy. The feeling, sure. But also the woman. The regular. At table 1. I first met her last year, when cozied up in a corner booth with Gay, the love of her life. Gay is gone. Joy told me about her passing a few months ago. Still, there is Joy. Now joined by different company for her visits. Her sister, Jean. Mary, a friend. Sometimes it’s just Joy and her headphones. She shares the corner with Liz tonight, who she tells me she’s been seeing. Like, seeing, seeing. Joy arrived first and ordered their drinks with me ahead, so her date could indulge immediately upon arrival. Chivalry’s alive. Changes come.

Natalie’s in too. At the bar. She was tasked with leading this ship for a good bit. I was glad during those days. I’m still sunny, but it’s different. She’s up the street now, so I never have to go long without seeing her. She had me at her party last month, a reminder that the laughter caused by the people I met on the ship is not confined to it. It can continue wherever we choose.

I welled up with tears not twenty minutes into my shift tonight. It’s not my last, but I put in my two weeks just before it began. I went to the bathroom so they could hit my cheeks. I once wrote an essay, which became a love letter to Botanica. About Easter week. When I was having stupid boy troubles and needed support from the place that has become home. There was a line I put about only ever crying at work because of the occasional cutting words from Chef Cirl and Manager Meagan. How, in their absence, I would not cry. That was true until tonight. These tears truly came from me. I saw my reflection in the mirror, and though my face was red, puffed by hot tears, I felt happy that my head holds a brain that’s full. Maximized, fed, hungry in the right way.

I gathered myself, then found Ben to tell him how I felt overwhelmed. I did. I do. I dug in my camera roll to find the photo I took in the bathroom on my first day to text my mother. My gingham apron, baseball cap and blank stare into the mirror. Not a bored blank stare. I remember feeling excitement. But I know now that you can’t feel much of anything in a state like that. Post-restricted. Pre-better. Changes come to the body too. Thank god.

Two Marches ago, and suddenly no more gingham allowed on the apron. I was given a blue one to match everyone else’s for my new role outside of the kitchen. I met the faces who I was once responsible for feeding, though I wasn’t ever so good at it. Cirl and I cut mushrooms, side-by-side, and she said she liked having me back there to talk to. Not because I cut mushrooms well. I laughed.

Once out front, I started speaking with girls like Gay and Joy and Nicole and Molly and her daughter Freya and their friend Cleo, who I now think I can call my friend. I’d like to; she’s cool. And Kim Gordon, who is not nice, but it’s still great news whenever she comes in! Because I get to text Dad about it! She orders the lamb dish, which hasn’t been on the menu in months. I’m not a server, but she’s decided I’m hers for the night, too impatient to wait for Ben, or whoever is actually meant to be tending table 81. I don’t mind; I’ll ring in her mezcal on the rocks with an orange peel. And Hari that one time, who came in with her gay boyfriend, who Ivy tells me is an ex now. And Audrey Hobert a couple of times. I awkwardly confessed the love my friends and I prematurely felt for her. Even without an album out, we knew she had something good going on. A year later, and look at that lolla crowd​!

I’ve done a good bit in those two years, I’ll say. That’s where the overwhelm I came to Ben about comes in. In those two years, my face filled out. Fucking finally. My hair holds two rounds of highlights, which I recently took advantage of, fully blonding out. All thanks to the newest barista boy’s hairstylist boyfriend. He got me looking real right. On the topic of blondes, I cannot believe Erin is no longer so. Pitch black now. Cosmetic changes come.

Vaughn, the only other girl like me at Boti, came late in my career. She’s doing a big cosmetic change in a few weeks, one for girls like us, one I’ve wondered if I want myself one day. My face has seen enough changes in two years, I think. I should let the fat settle before I consider anything more. When her bandages come off next month, I’ll bring over cookies to celebrate.

Two years went by, and somewhere in there, this kind of writing began. Thanks, Alan! It really was his doing, whether I’ve ever admitted that or not. Two semesters of that man’s iron, journalistic, feline-rooting fist left most of my peers aggravated. Go ‘Cats! I was inspired. My first Substack essay was about Chef Cirl.

I became a magazine girl sometime in the mix, too. Music intern first, then full-on contributor. Full-on implies a salary and responsibilities that Taylor and Bea and I are still fighting for. Taylor and I discuss this kind of thing at business meetings held after Slack hours, over Boti Basil cocktails that Tommy makes us. And a complimentary crudo from Julie.

He and I will take our contracts in the meantime; we’ll count our blessings. We pitched and reported to Joan together, who’s headed out at the end of August. We will miss her dearly. She tells us changes come, ready or not.

Before clocking in tonight, before even arriving at Boti and telling Chelsea that, unfortunately, my time’s up two Saturdays from now, post-PM Pantry kitchen shift, I spent the day riding around in a car with two girls my age. A ginger and a banged brunette, who started a band together. They put the pedal to the metal. Not literally; traffic prevented that. But career-wise. They told me (I was interviewing them, the magazine girl I am) about the year behind them. How quickly things started happening. The traction from just six songs. I asked a question, a stupid one, despite what people say about those not existing: “Are you guys like...about it? Like are you gonna, like, really, really do it?” I wanted to ensure that these girls were going hard in the paint; I pitched them because I believe if they do, changes will come big time.

They began to answer. The ginger, mostly. I got the gist of what she said: that 100% they are not turning back. That it’s all-consuming: the songs and visuals and live performances. But her exact wording is lost on me hours later. I became fixated, instead, on the look in her eye. She would not break deep contact with me. I had stopped recording my questions; this was just chatting, she knew that. Her intensity was not for print; it was so that I could know just how serious she was about what lay ahead. I think we’re similar kinds of 21-year-olds. I will not forget that look

I will not forget anything. I was told by a man, who I spent many a night sneakily texting from behind the host stand, that my memory is insane. It is. I remember all of him, mulling him and I over on nights when I don’t take my phone to the front of the restaurant. I stand stoic and think about every boy I’ve started seeing since I started letting myself a few months back. Two years ago was no time for that. Weak, ungirlish, unformed, fragile. Now, maybe it could be. Stoic, and playing in my imagination instead, drafting ideas, stringing them together, so that when I’m back to the page, there’s been no time wasted. I don’t reach out to that one guy anymore; I don’t let myself. Whenever I used to, he took it as a chance to give me more to remember, more that I can’t look back on fondly. I told Virgil it was quits for me, and he said good. That time is the one thing you can’t get back. Joan mentioned that too. Changes come.

I am done this evening, clocked out, and can’t stay. I must go home. To the new spot in the new neighborhood so I can write it all down; time is of the essence, like Virgil and Joanie said. Changes have and will come. Have and will, have and will, have and will. Joy somewhere through them all.

There are partygirl anthems, and there is “BEAT UP CHANEL$”. There are break up songs, and there is “brand new chanel$”. There are delayed popstar breakouts, and there is Slayyyter. 

While driving to SAT tutoring sessions junior year of high school, I remember streaming Slayyyter’s 2021 single, “Over This!”, over and over and over. I was 16 and angsty, upset with a Covid-cancelled prom, a boy I like for not hitting me back, my mom for making me take stupid SAT tutoring and a mustached man named Jimmy for, well, being my SAT tutor. On the drive home, when my teenage anger switched to generic juvenile sadness, I’d open Spotify and switch to “Clouds,” which I also let loop again and again. Definitely dramatic, definitely indicative of pre-transition me finding sorrow in any song I was into at the time, no matter how glittery and electronic drumkit-infused it was. 

I was a casual Slayyyter fan. 

These songs led to her 2021 debut album (her second full-length project), Troubled Paradise, which, with the split-dyed hair she was rocking, and nonspecific fairytale-inspired cover art, went down for me as relatively unremarkable. Those aforementioned singles sounded great, possessing tons of replay value, but there was no arc. There were no sonic or thematic throughlines. There were songs like “Throatzilla,” with kickers like “Suck a dick so killa.”

You gotta get a gimmick, sure, but the sense of shimmery hypersexualization felt tired after her previous project, a self-titled mixtape, which frankly featured a large enough dose of that. 

When Bodies Bodies Bodies dropped the following year, and that mixtape’s breakout track “Daddy AF” served as the film’s first needledrop, I was reminded of my familiarity with and fondness for the internet-inspired pop princess, and how her earliest tracks take the cake as some of her strongest. That cut, which has become generational, alongside “BFF,” featuring Ayesha Erotica, and “Mine,” an actually perfect pop song, did their best to define the pre-album mixtape. But again, and I’m not the first to say this: a collection of strong songs does not a strong project make. 

I moved to Los Angeles to study theatre in the time between her freshman and sophomore album, STARFUCKER. The LP is a SoCal mystique-bathed, ‘80s glam record, featuring tales of a spritely movie starlet. Actual goals! AF. But somehow, songs like “I Love Hollywood!” and “Dramatic” earned no interest from me whatsoever, nor did they break her out of the niche internet bubble she’d later say she felt unfairly pegged too. 

I don’t think this timeline I’ve painted of my own relationship to her music is a unique one. At my college radio station’s house parties, where gay guys would DJ, directing the nights’ vibes from behind the decks, my friends and I would tune in whenever whatever current Charli hit would mix into Slayyyter’s “Mine”. We would dance! But did not keep up, career-wise with the blonde girl blaring through the speakers.

Then, something shifted. Last summer, “BEAT UP CHANEL$” was released as the first single from what would be her comeback record, WOR$T GIRL IN AMERICA, solidifying the sonic and career reinvigoration we were about to experience from Slayyyter. There is one word to describe the track: anthemic. I could pull any lyric from this century-defining song; I’ll go with “Fuck him, go into his closet, steal some of his Supreme.” In listing her earthly desires, “Sex, money, drugs, chains on my chest, vintage Celine,” atop a gravelly bassline and sticky synths, Slayyyter subliminally spoke into existence what she would wind up getting from doing so: stardom. 

Describing the track as addictive somehow feels like an undersell. Like if a stoner explained his situation to a methhead. More on meth later. 

Five singles came ahead of the full collection, any of which could be argued as the record’s best offering “CRANK”, which, since starting her tour, has become the fan favorite live, is relentless. She spends the track moaning, screaming and spitting verses so crass it puts past banger “Daddy AF” to shame. The rawness on “CRANK” reminds of those early, guttural sounds, but levels them up. With taxidermied visuals to match, it has helped form an identity not only for the album itself but its place in her discography. Every pop project needs a fully formed era, nowadays, to parse through, connect with.

Twitter joked that “OLD TECHNOLOGY,” the last cut released before the full record, would do for meth what Brat did for coke. 

Music videos came alongside each of the five singles, capturing the visual side to the world Slayyyter had built for WOR$T GIRL IN AMERICA. With a track like “ST. LOSER,” on the album, she pays homage to her hometown, St. Louis. The Midwest is laid out, its influence all over the dirty, desolate picture she’s painted lyrically and through gritty production. Nonmusical, middle America media inspirations also aided to the record’s identity.

She drew on Gummo for “BEAT UP CHANEL$”, where in a Skims-esque floral bodysuit and bunnyears, baseball bat in hand, she leads a regime of wife beater-wearing trailer trash in what seems like an average day in the life. Shooting guns, playing the knife game, chain smoking, mud wrestling. For “OLD TECHNOLOGY,” she went wintery, psychological, black-and-white, Lynchian and obviously drug-clouded. That’s not to mention “DANCE…,” the album’s opener and highest streamed song to-date, which came with a blood-soaked, flash mob featuring video. In all these cinematic accompaniments, she bangs her head and thrusts and thrashes, as if she was listening to someone else play her own tracks for her. It subtly confirms how she herself is obsessed with this output. Her confidence is abundant, affirming newfound greatness. 

This assuredness is interesting, though, at least to me. 

Slayyyter isn’t coming off the tails of a record that earned cult acclaim, but had the misfortune of missing critics and the mainstream. Her hyper-online fans have beat the pavement in its defense, but the numbers never broke through, and she’s said in interviews this latest offering felt like a last shot at pop stardom. Without momentum moving her forward to WOR$T GIRL IN AMERICA, then it’s the faith in it. It’s faith that clearly comes from the quality of music and visuals she created, a boldness that now feels singular to her.

The critical and fan acclaim the album met upon its release is to be studied, in a decade defined by changing pop standards. If the singles made a promise, like a pipe does when it fills with smoke, the record is the drag, inhalation then euphoric release. It covers every base an album could, with Slayyyter, fully realized pop megatar, on full display. 

It’s striking, as mentioned, that during the press cycle for WOR$T GIRL IN AMERICA, on podcast and radio appearances for Popcast, Rolling Stone and Zane Lowe, Slayyyter opened up about the standoff she was having with her own music career. How if things didn’t start to pick up, she’d have to drop out, forfeiting in the face of high touring costs. “I didn’t want to continue making music. I felt like this was a last ditch effort,” she told Rolling Stone. She confessed the monetary need to return to St. Louis, potentially go back to school and turn music back into a passion project. That the intense industry, LA version of her musicianship was coming to an end. She was going to throw everything at this album, as if it was her last.

In hindsight, despite the hardships, thank God for that attitude. It’s so clearly what’s cemented her as something mainstream music needs, and could not afford to lose before ever properly getting to know her. Had things not worked out, good on her. That sentiment of re-finding the joy, sans logistical stressors, in one's art, even if it looks like a step backward, even if it no longer finds as large of an audience, is a beautiful one. But her pure sense of self carried into what she wound up creating, stepping her forward and forward and forward. 

Now? She’s nowhere near done, even with this album’s world. A new song dropped on July 31, igniting a fresh flame in I guess what we’re calling the WOR$T IN AMERICA series. She’s teasing a companion piece to the OG, titled WOR$T MAN IN AMERICA. Though the single, “brand new chanel$” is stylized in all-lowercase, directly diverting from the all-caps pattern on the original tracklist, it matches them in power, screamability, pop euphoria. It puts every other breakup anthem to shame, recounting her reaction to finding out she was cheated on two days before the original album released and during her rehearsals for Coachella 2026.

That performance is still buzzed about, months later.

I hesitate to call “brand new chanel$” a combination of the best of early Katy Perry, Kesha and even Bangerz-era Miley Cyrus, because it simply goes beyond. It is referential to these great acts, as well as herself, sampling “BEAT UP,” in its latter half. “He wants sex, money, bitches and to lie through his teeth,” she digs at her ex. 

I have never been in a relationship. I have never been cheated on. My romantic hot take is that I think cheating’s not that big of a deal. And yet, this is the best breakup song ever written. It has already adopted ‘trans girl anthem written by cis girl’ status for me the way “Normal Girl” by SZA did years ago. The metaphor is right there. 

Outside of my original meaning I’ve given to the track — which the best pop does — its actual metaphor analyzes something we’re used to seeing in the dating world: men always looking to level up. Playing in pretty girls’ faces. Tale as old as RuPaul. She equates herself to the Chanels she first sang of last summer, the beat up ones, and his new girl to a brand new pair, ones he’d prefer. Ones he’d been looking for while sporting the old.

The chorus is cosmic. “I call you on the phone to start a fight,” she wails. It is simple and electric and pop perfection. While we overuse that phrase, this is the definition. 

I’ll begin by saying this: my thoughts on this film are not conclusive. I feel the urge to write about it though, because movies rarely rile up something literary in me. I should honor the reaction this one is eliciting. I will not censor or edit what this winds up being. I will publish what I put. Should starting this spark something more intellectually substantial, so be it.

On Tuesday night, I split a bottle of wine with a boy I went to college with. He graduated the year before me; we ran in some similar circles. But until we matched on Tinder a month or two ago, I’d never really thought of him in a sexual manner. I hadn’t thought of him in any manner at all, really. I think I feel resentful, to myself and the circumstances, my transitioning in college preventing me from dating at all during those four years. I’m not shallow for wanting someone from my university on my Notes app list of names who’ve seen me nude.

We followed each other on Instagram, then didn’t talk for a few weeks, before the back and forth story liking became blatant enough, and someone slid in on the other, then it was on. We went outside to split a cigarette, just like the bottle of red we’d finished. Back in my apartment, and Aidan, my new, straight male roommate, was out. So this dude and I naturally found ourselves naked in my bed. Oops. Before I knew it, I was asking if he had protection. Transsexual women have wants, you know. And this one wanted to have sex! Like sex sex.

Desire.

He did not bring one, he said. Fuck! That’s ok, we agreed; we will just perform a really good version of all the other stuff. Should there be a next time, we can close the chakra, circle, whatever spiritual force you open when you start stripping another party’s clothes off. He asked what I liked, what I wanted him to do to me, and of course I acted coy, saying “Whatever! Everything!” But stronger than my sexually shy facade is my frankness. As quickly as I spit out my original statement, I retracted it, “Well, not everything. Obviously. But like, most things.” He laughed.

I asked, “Can you finger me?”

Teenage Sex and Death at Camp Miasma, the latest directorial offering from Jane Schoenbrun, starring the blossoming Hannah Einbinder, was awesome. I love horror, I love comedy, I love commentary, I love transgender, I love love love. I attended a screening Sunday night, five days after the night I split the wine and cigarette.

How coincidental. This flick could’ve been called Fingering Sex and Death at Camp Miasma or Teenage Fingering and Death at Camp Miasma or Teenage Sex and Death at Camp Fingering.

Hannah’s character, Kris, an indie film writer/director, takes a meeting with Billy Presley (portrayed gorgeously by Gillian Anderson), a burned-too-bright-too-fast starlet of Camp Miasma, a cult classic slasher franchise, as part of her pitching process to reinvigorate it in a way that will go beyond the many prior failed attempts to do so. The pair spend snowy days analyzing what made the Summery series of yore so special to pre-teen Kris. Billy knows not only the answer, the secret feelings she evoked onscreen years ago in the original, but also the fact that Kris must feel matching ones herself in order to make the something new she desires so badly.​

Topless, boy-boxered Kris makes the first move, appearing in front of Billy at her fireplace. One thing leads to the next, and Billy’s fingers and whispers lead Kris to a state of vulnerability, curiosity, post-brash timidness, embarrassment and a sense of honesty that I think is completely unique to that specific sexual action. Kris, the fingered, is red in the face, speaking hoarsely between gasps and quick inhales, about the fantasies from her mind’s most secluded corners. To a woman she’s hardly just met. That woman is able to remain calm and collected, coaching Kris to these conclusions that simultaneously have everything and nothing to do with her own sexuality. Billy is poised, as she would be, receiving no such physical stimulation from Kris. That’s okay. It’s clear the pleasure she’s getting from the situation, though tending to a different area of the psyche entirely, is equal.

​I’m blushing remembering this scene, looking forward to a rewatch.

Before this next bit, I’ll tell you this: had I known Miasma contained such matching sexual depictions to what I experienced just days before watching, I would’ve ditched this dude entirely and found another girl to do them with. It would’ve made the whole week, and this essay, way better probably.

“Thank you,” I said to my newest sexual partner when he finished what I asked of him. I keep coming back to this moment in the time since we’ve seen each other. What a funny thing to say? I obviously meant it. I have manners. Ask, and you shall receive. I’ve been oversharing on my Close Friends Instagram stories since starting my series of sexual escapades this Spring. There’s not many, hence why I often deem them worthy of entire essays. I mean, we didn’t even technically fuck, me and this dude. Anyway, I compared my verbal admission of gratitude for him fingering me to Dawn Wiener from Welcome to the Dollhouse. A pseudo-loser girl complex resulting from my transness itself, and the time my transition took away from having experiences and experiments. Like I’m behind a grade level in life or something. My Close Friends list liked the cinematic draw, I’d like to think. And as I write that, I realize, isn’t it a one-for-one comparison to what this whole youthful, sexual exploration should be? Both parties liking what the other has offered? Something to give each other? How was that for you?

Desire.

Kris writes and underlines that word in her notebook while watching the first Camp Miasma film in a hotel bed covered in gas station-sourced candy and popcorn, before ever meeting Billy in the flesh.

I am early in my own artistic, writerly, creative ventures, and I know they will push me places I’m unfamiliar with. Watching Kris become consumed, not negatively, but certainly holistically, by these goals, is frankly inspiring.

I was speaking to a musician for my magazine girl work, who wrote a lyric about having a pause for certain situations with women, but doing them anyway “for the song”. I brought it up and asked if it was honest. He told me it was. I was curious, because I can see a future for myself doing things for the essay. I’m not there yet; I really think everything has been in good faith, and I’d like to keep it that way as long as I can. But, like Kris, I’d like to see where life and art can coincide. What, from the real, can I turn into the fictitious? Where can I go that will teach me about myself, the parts of which I’ve yet to discover, and how will those places inform creation? I desire to find the limits and what lies beyond.

I’ll walk you through my Saturday night: no one else could. Seated some tables throughout service, not too many, things have been slow at the old Bar and Grille. Spoke to a select number of those groups, one being a blonde family four top (mom, dad, boy toddler, girl toddler). The blonde mom, who resembled my own, complimented my outfit. Plaid Brandy mini skirt with buckles on the side, which I stole from Molly the last time I was home In Albany and in the company of my own blonde mother. And a new navy long sleeve. This lady said she liked the Clueless quality I had going. I thought she was talking about my freshly blonde hair and thanked her! She said she was referencing my skirt. How fitting of a fumble! Maybe the dye did get to me. I did say beforehand that I wanted the gay guy stylist to have my locks looking so light I forget my ABCs. Job well done.

I proceeded to tell this woman she looked like my blonde mother. I was told while conferring with my coworkers after the fact, that no woman would ever want to hear that. Do they know my mother? They don’t. That’s the nicest thing I could ever say to a random diner. The lady smiled when I said it, I think she understood my earnestness.

I was cut at 8:30, and changed into a black Brandy minidress. I have too many of those and they really don’t work for PAWG summer. Oh well. I sat at the bar and waited for my precious Colin. We had concert (kinda) plans that started with his joining me for my shift drink. Before he could arrive, I was hit with an espresso martini from Tommy tending bar and a “hey” text from a guy who I thought was being dodgy. Apparently not. He asked if I’d like to come see his new apartment. I had to tell him about my plans for Silverlake Lounge later. With Colin.

And in walks Colin, who greased his hair into a harsh middle part, who said he dressed like a guido. Honestly, yeah. In a really good way. We chatted with Vaughn, who was still clocked in, about tooth gems and our night’s plans. I think she liked him. I think he liked her. I like that. I finished my espresso martini and Colin downed the rest of his G&T. We walked across the street for one more drink before heading down Silver Lake Boulevard to the neighborhood’s lounge for Kreayshawn.

While standing in line for the bathroom, soaking in warm gold lighting and taking in our varied reflections from the waiting room’s 360 degree mirrors, we were approached by a dude who struck up confident conversation. He immediately walked away after I started speaking. I am at such a weird point in my transition. I don’t care about voice training to pass better. I don’t care about passing. It has no positives, honestly. That’s a bigger conversation.

We pissed then danced. The dj caught my attention with his transition from“Rock Music” into Ninajirachi. I wonder if I should start caring about her music the way everyone else my age does. I’m lukewarm. I went fucking belligerent, with but one drink in my body, when I heard “On Your Mind” by Twigs and Yachty come on. FUCK that song is good. Because is it? Heavy in your heart? Like wow.

We went outside to bum a cigarette. Our saviors wound up a young couple of paralegals. I obviously told them about my mom and dad, though dad was already at attorney status when they started up. This poor couple on Sunset’s sidewalk could be spared the details. The dude was metrosexual, the girl was gorgeous. I’m sure they’ll last long.

Colin and I came back inside for Kreayshawn. I watched him go bar for bar with her. I’m honestly not a big fan. I know the two songs people know. Colin was transfixed, turning around to dance with me at least one time per song. That was more than enough. Just watching him smile and jump made my heart sing. Gay boys are the best ever. Kreay gifted the crowd cat ears covered in blinking LEDs. We both donned a pair for her whole set, and on the walk back to my Honda.

We drove home to “Brand New Chanel$” on loop. That’s how it felt, this Saturday night. Like the breath of fresh air that chorus feels like. Keeping granny Andie out until 2 AM is a trying task. Colin conquered.

(I don’t get hungover)

I’m not a party animal; I’m a girl who has fun. A party presenting itself is fun. This Monday night in June, it came in the form of poolside convos, drinking and noshing to celebrate dearest Natalie. Ex-manager Natalie, who was always my favorite face at the old Bar and Grille, and is now just a pleasure whenever I can get her.

I invited Matty to come along with me because, like Natalie, he’s a delight. And because we’ve been inseparable the past few months and are maximizing that this week in the sense that we’re sleeping in the same bed together for my brief , between-leases homelessness (23 hours, but who’s counting).

After those hours were up, he and I grabbed the keys to my new place and got to business. Business was finding the nearest liquor store because, well, I’m a girl who has fun. I just said that. And Matty’s a gay boy who has a whole lotta fun. We took shots to christen my new crib. He chased with orange soda while I went with a trusty Diet Coke.

His two-week-long boyfie texted him a cute photo from work. He was wearing bunny ears at some luncheon or party they were having.

I went to bless my new bathroom with, well, piss (ew, sorry). I came out to see Matty on the floor crying, because he finds that boyfie just so precious. He’s gonna miss that boyfie so bad. Matty makes the move to Denver next week. I’m going to miss Matty so dearly. I sat on the floor with him, where I started to cry too.

We each had but two shots before crying on my unfurnished apartment floor. We needed hot dogs in our tummies, Jesus Christ. I called us on Uber.

Hopped out the whip in the Hollywood Hills. I used to pray for times like this. Talk about Lana’s “Hot summer nights, Mid July, when you and I were forever wild” line. The “You” in this case being Matty, of course. We said hello to Devin, and I thanked her for letting me borrow her pickup truck to transport my mattress from one apartment to the other. I wished Natalie a happy birthday, and introduced Matty to Luis and all the other characters I could get a hold of.

Matty swam. I dipped my toes in. We decided it was time to stalk the grill for sustenance, where we met a new friend, a fellow food runner at a restaurant not dissimilar to the Bar and Grille I stay posted at. He charred dogs for us, thank fuck.

I talked to a fella who patroned the Bar and Grille last week during my Friday night hostess shift. When I was cut at 8:30, I joined him and Natalie and other friends at their table outside. I enjoyed my shifty, a glass of Les Blonnets Blancs. He was chill then, at table 81, and was chill again, poolside.

I met a girl whose Tyler McGillivary dress I accurately ID’d as a compliment. I think I can now officially call my indie fashion brand Spidey senses a party trick. She and I hit it the fuck off. A guy brought a box of blue raspberry flavored vapes. He explained why he’d come into their ownership, but I’ve since forgotten. I literally tipsy-cried before I even left my house. Then proceeded to drink red wine and salty tequila sodas. My memory is not necessarily serving me. I’ll write to recall.

Another girl was talking to the chill guy about training for a half, to which I told them about my first full, scheduled for the same month. Am I an asshole? No. That’s just conversation, right? And I was really encouraging to her; I really think she’ll do great and have fun. She was insisting the dude share a seat with her. And though I said my recollection of last night isn’t top notch, I’m pretty sure there were enough spots to render that move completely unnecessary. Flirting is supposed to be a bit more coy, I thought?

I called an Uber home and, upon entering, realized how drunk I was. And how little hot dogs do to counter drinking. I had one earlier, then a slice of strawberry shortcake. Not enough. They busted out the burgers way too late, which I’m understanding is the tactic of someone cruel and calculated. Offering only franks (which, I’ve told you, are calorically worthless when fighting red wine and tequila) until everyone’s good and sloshed, then cooking up burgers when I’m too hazy to stomach red meat, is crazy.

So the thoughts in my head during the ride home were as follows: “I am so drunk I can feel the fat in my cheeks moving in accordance with the bumps in the road. This is the first July in three years I’ve had fat in my cheeks.” and “There’s a million reasons why vaping and smoking cigarettes is bad. The only one I care about right now is the stomach ache doing so has induced”. These quotes went into my notes app. That’s how I know I was fucked up: I don’t use my notes app to write down stupid drunk quotes in Ubers. I don’t use my notes app to write down anything.

I returned to Matty’s, where I slept in his bed without him. He was at boyfie’s. I closed my eyes and wondered whether he was crying with boyfie or not. About Denver, and leaving LA and all the things we had cried about together earlier.

I ended up having a nightmare. My subconscious came up with a great idea for a new low-budget, indie horror flick. I can’t tell you what it is, obviously, but I can say that audiences will, in missing the more political point, refer to the movie as “religious horror”. One of the major jump scares woke me up to start my Tuesday.

Jarring start to today. For no real reason. Scrolled my overnight notifications, ones that arrived during my slumber (which was, honestly, quite nice). Looked for an update on the two apartments Aidan and I applied to yesterday. Why one would appear between the hours of 11PM and 8AM, I couldn’t quite say. And one didn’t, so venturing a guess would be completely unnecessary.

8AM was premature. The wake up calls have been purposefully early lately, in order to get me on the roads quickly, running like the wind to beat the brutal heat. Today, there was no run planned, so I was going to make up for my sleep slack. God had other plans. I headed for the spot I’d spend the next hour and a half. Planet Fitness. For stairmaster and deadlift purposes. I don’t think I do either correctly, but I embrace the PAWG vibes I adopt while performing them. I feel Iggy-esque, so I listen to Carti to complete these tasks.

After sweating through my james K T-shirt, I headed home. I ate yogurt and berries for breakfast because my parents have been doing that lately in Albany, and because it’s too hot for anything that is not yogurt and berries. Christ al-fucking-mighty.

I showered and walked to Matthew’s,FaceTiming my father on the way. I was wearing his Birdwell button-down, and had questions about how the fuck you apply to an apartment. I think we did? I hung up the phone.

​Matthew texted me that it would be storytime upon my arrival. I did not dry my hair; I was too eager. To hear about the things he did last night with someone relatively new. And wow. Wow wow wow. We sat in his bed, where I confirmed with him that the acts of last night took place. I would say ew, but not really! I saw the pair at Boti Bar and Grille last week. On the date I set up for them at table six. They shared the corner booth and lots of laughter and wine. I’m surprised their first night of intimacy didn’t follow. I thought I’d done a good enough job, hoping they’d be overwhelmed with the floral arrangement I made and centerpieced their two-top with. That’s ok; patience is a virtue.

The point is, the two of them look great together, and so I didn’t mind sitting in the bed they’d just made love in. Just like confirming that it was this bed, the one I sit on, where the acts of last night took place, I also inquired, and was told how the acts of last night were, in fact, lovemaking. Not just fucking. That makes my sitting in the bed the same, just hours afterward, far easier to accept.

I left dear Matty so I could go home and write. I finished what I called my “first foray into fiction”, which will be one of 22 pieces I’ll publish in a collection for my birthday. I cannot wait. The fiction piece is shorter than I was expecting it to be. But 22 entries are proving to be a lot of writing. I have five-ish things (I call them things because they’re stylistically varied, and because I’ve already used all the other accurate descriptors) left to complete before I can design this thing, then send it to print before having a release party. The last bits can lean light.

I put on my Paloma Wool skirt to lounge in bed and write a diary for today. I’m listening to a Spotify blend of my music taste, Ivy’s, and that belonging to a new friend of mine, Joanna, who’s actually interning for the company this Summer. Their blend feature is so clutch. I didn’t know you could have three people on the same one until we made ours together in New York a few weeks back. Funnily enough, the only artist we all share listenership of is Blood Orange. If he is a chaser, he’s a good one.

I’m out of bed and walking to Trader Joe’s. For sustenance in the shape of a premade sandwich, probably. Not at all appetizing, but nothing is in this FUCKING HEAT. Christ, even the mesh skirt that bares my entire lower half due to its sheerness is overwhelming me. I have paired it with a Brandy Melville Henley T-shirt for a good high/low balance. And kitten heels that a kind woman complimented me on at Boti the other night. It was her birthday. She pulled me to table one so she could ask about where I got them. She and her husband were so kind, telling me about their trip this weekend to Santa Barbara to celebrate. Did they know they were making my shift by filling me in? How I wish I were joining them. I would love to share with them the essay I wrote there in May. It’s become one of my favorites. These heels are cute; she was right. But so beat down. I guess that’s why they’re so comfy carrying me to grocery store dinner.

After indulging in a sad sandwich and non-sad seltzer water (glass bottle), I began to walk aimlessly. Maybe 30 seconds passed before the sun turned into a compass and pointed me the fuck home. Back into poor air conditioning. I was a block away before running into my tall, blonde, beautiful India. She wore a LBD and flip fops on her walk to where I just came from, so she could buy green tea and skincare from the Sephora nextdoor. We, together, insisted I needed to join.

We gabbed and gabbed and got green tea for her, then split a roach on top of a nearby parking structure. We filled each other in on each other’s boyfriends: hers, real and an ex now; mine, a collective of 45 different men, maybe four of whom see me as anything existent or post-platonic. I walked her to the vape shop, then really returned home and into a bearable temperature.

I told myself I would go watch live music at Julia’s workplace tonight. I’ll follow through, but the weed and killer unreleased Ethel I’m listening to needs to start encouraging that kind of move. It’s doing the complete opposite currently. I still hate Mondays (It’s Wednesday).

Unreleased Ethel somehow turned into Kim Petras, which spun into Edward Skeletrix. I don’t know how. Sometimes I amaze myself. And the Brandy Melville top slipped off and was replaced with a Cou Cou floral bralette and my white KXSC radio T-shirt. In questioning if what I’m wearing sucks or not, I realize it is half-decent. There is mascara on my lashes for the first time in days. I may apply glitter tears as well, just to celebrate that. I’ll be out the door and Lincoln Heights-bound in minutes.

That’s just splendid. Parked my car and walked a block to the Airliner, then up the stairs into the venue. I saw Julia first, then a guy I went on a date with a few weeks ago, who was sitting at the table next to hers. I hugged her, sat down and crossed one leg over the other, then made some of the most awkward eye contact I’ve ever had the displeasure of involving myself in with this man. He waved, and I think I did the same. It’s hard to know; my focus had shifted onto his company, a girl whose smallness looked painful. With my own ex-smallness being painful, I’ve developed a sixth sense for when other girls’ smallness is so. My focus has shifted back to him, then to Julia, where I will indulge in our best friend small talk, before getting her to a secondary location to spill about this guy, our date together, his consistent texting with me afterwards, and his insistence that he needs to “get his life together” before our second one. I’m not upset; I don’t know this guy. It is just a reminder of how randomly boys move.

We go downstairs and find Colin, gorgeous gay Colin. He dons a blue polo and denim shorts, and we chat at a table, ignoring the music we should be watching. After a night of just chatter and yammering, we call it quits. Colin caught me updating my diaries while we stood at the bar waiting for our tab. He asked if he could include a quote, which I obliged.

“Hello, ‘tis I, Colin Kennedy,” he wrote on this document. He’s perfect.

Julia and I walked to my Honda, which took us home and horizontal.

Stop and smell the botanical gardens

There is life, and there is what you do upon realizing you’re living one. This thought came to me in the botanical gardens at Nara Park in Japan. I do not carry a notebook with me, so this thought remained on a loop in my brain until I sat down for lunch and pulled up my iPhone’s notes app.

At a spot recommended to me by a boy I met on Tinder, who I never ended up meeting in-person, naturally. A spot that served chopped fatty tuna over rice. The only choice given to you was whether you’d like green onion on top or not. The wasabi tickled my nose while I ate. I got too much of it during some bites and felt dragon-like, silly as it sounds.

I should have been carrying a notebook in Nara. It is stupid that I was not. I bought one two days prior, during my last day in Tokyo. At the Nezu Museum gift shop. It has a yellow, floral canvas cover. There's no spine, which allows the pages to flow into one another and accordion outward.

There is no writing in it yet. Soon. I played dress up at the Rick Owens Tokyo store next door to the museum. The sales associate was kind to me, filling a rack with pieces for me to put on. I left the store empty-handed, though not really, since I'd bought a Rick Owens dress earlier in the day at their stall in Ginza’s Dover Street Market. I left their flagship store wondering how you become a Rick Owens sales associate. Do they expect you to grow pitch black hair to your ass before you interview? Or after?

I met a girl a few weeks ago, a few days before I flew to Japan, who told me how she lived there for a good while before moving back to the states. She’s subleasing in Silverlake for the summer.

She was a girl like me, and was with another girl like me, walking down Sunset. I ran into them on the sidewalk. I had just left that numerically-named nightlife haunt that shall not be named in this essay. Because I’m a little embarrassed to have been there at my big age, and because it’s truly not one of my haunts and never has been. As I said, they get numeric with their name, so I’ll keep that energy: I think I’ve been there four times. Enough about the bar I’m insisting I won’t talk about. These girls (ones like me, as I mentioned) lit up when they saw my t-shirt.

Alternative harp duo merch I’d bought the night prior. Of course, girls like me recognized it. When I recognized them, as the girls like me that they are, I squealed and hugged them. They asked where I was coming from, which, of course, I was ashamed to admit, the way I’m ashamed to be writing about it. They both happened to be out-of-towners, so shame was not at all necessary. I told them how I was planning to head home, but instead they insisted I join them at the bar down the street that they were headed to.The girl who lived in Japan and I hit it off immediately. When we arrived at the bar, one that I’d never been to before, but that I suppose could actually become a haunt, I was recognized (just as the girls recognized my t-shirt, and as I clocked their girl-like-me-hood) by a man with whom I’ve recently become friends. Through gay coworker. This guy is not gay. He is interesting, though. And cute in a very singular way. He hugged me, then I ignored him to talk to my new friend. She told me about Japan and the music she makes, then I told her about Japan and the music I write about. Her vape gave me a tummy ache.

We went to the bathroom together because I had to pee. The inside of this bar was huge and crowded. I don’t like having to squeeze through crowds as a girl like me. I don’t think I’m being dramatic or reading too far into it when I say it’s one of the times girls like me become entirely inhuman to the people, mostly the men, around us. Or maybe men in LA just aren’t gentlemanly and don’t say sorry when you say “excuse me” behind them. Either option is one I’m cool with complaining about.

We came out of the stalls, and she whipped out a notebook. Not a small one that cutely accordions its pages, like the one I’d end up finding weeks later, but a large one. A spiral notebook, the kind I haven’t used since precalculus, when taking notes was a chore (Maybe it still is, given how I haven’t cracked open this beautiful new one of mine). She asked if I wanted to write something, and of course I did; that’s what I do. My tummy ache was on its way out, and my bladder was drained. I was reinvigorated. If it meant not having to weave through the crowd again, as a transsexual woman who doesn’t like weaving through crowds, so soon after doing it the first time, then I was happy to stall. I don’t remember what I wrote, but I remember the way this girl sniffled the entire night and told me it was because of her ketamine habit that carrying the notebook helped her knock. She told me it was something different to do in bar bathrooms. I’ve never done ketamine. I still want to start carrying a notebook.

I’ll come back to that first thought, the one Nara’s botanical gardens brought to me. About the difference between life and knowing you’re living one. I don’t think it’s a unique one. I think it was my brain’s reckoning with “stop and smell the roses”. Slow down. Good advice, obviously, but not at all new. But advice, as long as it has existed, familiar as it may be, feels new when you need it. When you haven’t been following it.

I don’t live with regrets. Except for developing The Plague, of course. So I don’t feel guilty about not slowing down before now. I walked in the gardens and reflected on college, something I’ve spent a great deal of time doing since starting senior year, since before college was something to reflect on. I made the great change, which requires a lot of drive and tenacity. Youmust be brash with that kind of thing. I tried being timid about it, and the results left me frustrated.

In the early days of the great change and the early days of other people knowing you’re doing it, there is impatience. This impatience resulted in things like The Plague, and in what I realize now was a bit of dissociation. The Plague encourages the latter, though they are separate issues. I came out of each, thankfully. But stayed steadfast in the constant push forward in the change, until I started seeing myself as on the other side of it. The feeling of that placement, the comfort that it brings, is one of the best I’ve had the pleasure of experiencing. It’s never over- the change; I don’t see how it ever will be. I take my shot each week and will until I die. I think about it always and never want to stop. It’s beautiful.

But I think I am at a point where I can lift my foot off the gas. I have a life and will continue to live it. Actualized. Think the new notebook will help me ease up.

Last night, upon realizing how I’d be sandwiching my next 24 hours between separate standup comedy performances, I decided it would be fitting to document the whole saga as this week’s diary.

I myself was a participant in last night’s mic. Completely open to the public, Ella and I headed west to a small club in Santa Monica. We each took the mic for five minutes, equally disappointing ourselves and the audience with our quips. We gave each other grace on the drive home, given how there were maybe four other faces in the crowd who would potentially have laughed at our Gen Z wit. They did not. Oh well.

Ella is a new friend. She’s from Philly originally, and her East Coast sensibilities have stuck with her through her Southern California schooling. Mine too. I think that’s why we get along so well despite only meeting in January. In standup comedy class, of course. Girls with gall.

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This is my second and a half piece of writing today. Is that grammatically correct?

Woke up early, decided seven miles was as far from being in the cards as possible post-yesterday’s 14-miler. Giving myself grace because I’m still learning how to train for this marathon moment. I told everyone about it this weekend, so if the pressure wasn’t already on, it is now. I’ll do some form of cross-training later today. In the home gym, no one uses it. Be the change you wish to see in the world.

I walked to the grocery store I used to work at for caffeine. I missed energy drinks so badly in Japan. I sipped it and listened to Good Noticings Patreon, where they dissected Ken Eurich’s potentially toxic relationship. I don’t know what conclusions they came to. I don’t care. I could listen to those two ladies wrinkle candy wrappers into the microphones for two hours and still feel smarter afterwards. Shoutout.

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There are updates contributing to this strange feeling. Marathon training mostly. I will do it in October, and I will feel so awesome awesome awesome. Finding a race in the Fall was always my intention, but because I registered for what will be a beautiful, beachside 26.2 miles in Newport, Rhode Island, post-30 hour travel day, the idea of beginning training still hasn’t set in, mentally. But physically, Stella and her master spread sheet of weekly workouts and runs has been commanding my body since I recovered from the aforementioned travel day.

Yesterday was 9 miles with her and Matty. They’d never properly hung out, so I was actually a little thrilled when we split up during the 20x1 minute on 1 minute off section of the run. I sped up and they did too, but my legs are long and I had caffeine on our drive over to the river. 

We reconvened, sweaty, then showered separately. Matty and I met up again in the afternoon. To tan on his lawn. I read Bukowski from the library that I don’t like but will finish so I have something to talk to coworker Virgil about when I return to the restaurant in two weeks.

I keep stopping by Boti for free coffee. I did so with Matty between the run and the Bukowski on his porch. We said hi to all the folks and I got more caffeine for my veins so I could lounge and read. Stressful Summer So Far. 

I applied for the most random job. From Matty’s computer. Maybe the equally random application environment will help me secure the spot working luxury retail a few hours from LA. Fingers crossed. 

I had to leave and tend to my real job, even though it’s a Friday night. The realest jobs are worked on Friday nights. I went to WeHo to report on a piece I’ve already published for school, but that I’ve successfully sold to my editor. Due diligence means fresh voices in the story about reality tv watch party culture in the city of angels. These fresh voices ended up belonging to gorgeous Gen Z girls. Their enthusiasm speaking about Katya and Willam and other drag queens was infectious. I haven’t watched the show in years and apparently neither have the old gays I tried asking about it. 

That’s fine, stories evolve. And I’ve got good quotes about these girls driving from the desert to watch episodes of tv they already watched during the week. Awesome.

I went home and watched the reality show I’m invested in. Love Island and Trinity and Bryce and MELANIE. Mela. My girl. Think she’ll find someone. 

I retired to my bed. The days are short the week after the best two you’ve had the pleasure of living. 

Nara Park. A quick, early Japanese breakfast before boarding the train, then transferring twice and arriving at what I quickly realized was as close to heaven as my transsexual s…

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I write to you all in a very Japanese way this week. By that, I mean I am sitting in the lounge of The Knot hotel in Shinjuku. Landon, my dear Landon, has just left me so I can write. I can boss him around because I’m letting him sleep in the second twin bed in my hotel room for the next few nights. And because I just bought us pastry breakfast from the bakery downstairs. He needs relief from his hostel, which is cramped with expats who are plaguing him with their ordering of Domino’s pizza and lounging around inside rather than seeing the sights of Tokyo. I’m sick of hearing him complain about it, hence my invitation for him to stay with me. His time there wasn’t all bad. He had a nice chat with an Irish lad yesterday about colonialism and which countries committed it in the most gruesome way. I don’t remember which country won? Lost? But liked listening to him report their rapport back to me. There’s a my dad quality to Landon. They can both chat about whatever with whomever. 

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A few tears crept up on me last night.

I stood in the crowd at the LEYA show. I was one of maybe 45 alt hoes, not young hoes, Sam and I were probably the only pair in attendance that could accurately claim both titles. Actually (and no offense to him, this is more so a dig at myself), Sam wasn’t much of an alt hoe last night. He was wearing a Seattle crewneck and jeans, and brought a puffer jacket “in case he got cold”. It is Los Angeles. It is not cold. No one should have a puffer jacket. The sleeves remained tied around his waist all night, a styling choice that further widened the swag gap between us. A swag abyss, really, which I clowned us for. I wasn’t innocent in the swagonomics at play. I also wasn’t cold, even though I’d be well within my rights to. I was definitely dressed as an alt hoe, in a new-to-me, old-to-the-world sheer dress I picked up from Avalon Vintage in Highland Park a few weeks ago. I was christening it. I had decided I’d wear it to the show before I even bought a ticket. White and completely see-through, I put on $150 worth of pointelle cotton underwear beneath it. For modesty.

My initial plan was to attend the alternative harp duo’s show with the only person in my orbit who was also familiar with their work. He gave me soft maybes both times I asked, then made clear to me earlier this week that there would be no trips to concerts for the two of us. Fine. I will ask my loyal Sam instead. I’d rather see him, anyway. If he says no, I’ll go on my own. I knew he’d oblige because tickets were $15 and the last time we saw one another, it was a $200+ endeavour. Last month, we shared a day filled with tuna melts and ice cream cones, then a night of life-changing music when we attended FKA Twigs in San Diego. Tickets were not cheap. And though world-altering (and soon to be tribute-tattoo-inducing) that night brought no tears to my eyes. All that is to say, this warehouse show was no big ask.

Maybe the tears were the result of the beyond-necessary number of drinks I had beforehand. We started at a bar I’ve been to twice now, with wine. Orange for me, something sparkling (that I thought tasted kind of gross) for him. Then we moved the car closer to the venue and the second bar. Though I want to use a different word than “bar” to describe this place, since their old-timey, speakeasy quality was clearly so important to them. I’d like to honor that with my words. We sat on a couch. Could I call it a lounge? And they specialized in “healing” cocktails with various “properties”, as well as absinthe drinks. I wanted one of those, and so I ordered one. It was tasty and herbaceous. I feel like using the word hooch to describe what I was drinking, though I doubt that’s accurate terminology for absinthe. I had a third drink, and I normally don’t have third drinks, but who cares! I was having fun with Sam, and the bartenders were kind, and I was drinking hooch!

We closed out and went to the show, where the first opener was wrapping up her screamo shoegaze set. She was a girl like me, so shoutout. I bought a big t-shirt from the merch stand, because I knew I’d feel cool wearing it the next day with Brandy boxers while I wrote Substacks in Starbucks (I do feel cool doing exactly that, if you’re wondering). We walked around, exploring the randombob Arts District venue we were at for the night.

Urika’s Bedroom came on, and we came inside to pay closer attention. I knew Sam would like them and their lo-fi vibe. I saw them open for james K at the beginning of the month. My fingers were crossed because at that show, the guy who sang and was supposed to play the great guitar featured all over their tracks wasn’t able to. He was able to sing and did a great job of that, but his arm was stuck in a sling. There wasn’t even a guitar onstage. Tonight, he sat, sang and strummed. I smiled. I don’t remember how many songs they played, but I do remember that I spent the last two silently weeping. I love the sound of guitars, and I thought about the way the dude in front of me, who actually knows how to play them, probably loves them more than I can comprehend. Maybe that’s what overwhelmed me. Or maybe it was the absinthe, or the fact that the absinthe was just one of three drinks.

Maybe it was the way I’d, at one point, wished to be at this concert with someone else. And then stopped wishing that just days before. I was at the concert with someone I care about far more, who’s known so many versions of me, who has never been unkind to me the way the non-attendee was. It could have been the idea that the non-attendee still probably has no idea that he was unkind to me at all. He never will have that idea, I don’t think. He asked for friendship that he doesn’t deserve, that I doubt he even wants. Friendship that I would’ve been happy to give until this unkind side of him showed itself for the last, most-damning time. He thinks asking for friendship is kind, but it isn’t because that’s exactly what we had. There were some added benefits, sure, but he only let us have those one real time. One time was all he wanted. The rest of it was actual friendship. To me, at least. And in letting the more-than-friendly part of it become a flash in the pan, he showed how that’s exactly what I was to him. Something novel, which he found beautiful, which I continue to believe when he keeps saying so. But something quickly disposable. Conquerable. And apparently, not worth the proper thought and words required when handling a girl like me.

And though that graf about him is sad, I was not sad about him last night. I was glad to be at a show I wanted to go to with someone who wanted to go with me. A few tears came down my freckled cheeks (a couple on the right side, just one on the left) because I was thinking about it all, not just him. I was thinking about the guitar and someone’s ability to play it and the way it makes me feel, even though I’d have no clue what to do with it myself. I was thinking about the nice night I was sharing with a pal I’ve had the pleasure of knowing for so long now. I was thinking about the way girls like me are treated and the ways they should be, and how badly I wish they were. Between my tears, I saw a groupie in the corner who somehow knew all the words to the songs that I didn’t even know there were words to, because goddamnit that guitar sounds so good. And she’s dancing, and I wondered how? Because I was crying. And she kind of pissed me off, so I did my best to ignore her. And I did a good job because the tears persisted during the penultimate song all the way through the opener’s last.

And between the sets by the opener and the harpists I came for, I spoke to Sam. He didn’t see my tears when they came; he liked the set the way I suspected he would, his eyes remained glued to it. But I felt comfortable telling him about them after the fact. He was honest in return about the way he wished they’d come to him, even just once in a while, because they might feel good. I nodded, because he’s right. I wish they’d come to him, too. They do feel good.

This week’s diary should not cover today. Happy Tuesday. There are wounds too fresh to be put on the page. Though it’s more like old wounds that have been reopened and, in being reopened, feel completely new.

I’ll backtrack.

I awoke sprightly at 7:30, I think. I pitched, was given the green light, and started writing a story moments later. About a show I like that is ending this week. Omen? Is there symbolism in everything? This Substack series is so new. I guess I’m learning that if I want to chronicle my day, I need to start more promptly. Lest I want this kind of weak symbolism, the result of my afternoon’s troubles to appear in my telling of a morning that was, truthfully, quite peaceful. I moved my car to the other side of the road. Had I started today with a parking ticket, I would not be stable enough to write a diary today. Think I would’ve needed to be put in a padded room. There’s no use in speculating. I was timely, and snuggled Russ, my Honda, into a spot one street over.

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We used to frequent a spot. Everybody everywhere has spots they frequent, I know. It’s one of life’s simple pleasures, returning somewhere. “We,” in this case, alludes to myself and various casts of characters from my teenage years. There was some overlap, at times, between the teams brought together to venture beyond the fence. Behind the hotel on Route 9W. The hotel that only ever seemed to host tweenage girls and their parents, who only ever ended up in our neck of Upstate for cheerleading or dance competitions. The hotel that I’ve never stepped foot into, because home was five minutes down the road.

I stepped foot through the hole in the chain links behind the hotel. The opening was big enough for my friends and me to fit, so why shouldn’t we? Might as well have had a welcome mat. We were met on the other side by a cemetery. Sisters buried beneath identical black crosses in Albany dirt beneath Albany grass. Then, down the paved slope it stood and sprawled, this place. “The nunnery,” as most of us called it, though that’s not really what it was, in all its red-bricked, forest-shrouded glory. It was first a convent, part of the Society of the Sacred Heart, then closed its doors as a Doane Stuart Academy in 2008.

It wasn’t school for any of us. We were public high kids for the most part. We took friends from private schools sometimes, but they acted funny about it. They had helicopter parents who had their live locations. Buzzkill. I don’t think I’d have nearly as much interest in the convent if I hadn’t been raised Catholic. I think that’s why Maire and the Holbrooks, Francie and I had such a special affinity for it. Others, though frequent in attendance, placed value on its current vacancy rather than the past inhabitants. We liked being somewhere with stories.

We smoked a lot of weed there. I’ve never been good at smoking weed. These groups, at times, hit double digits, leaving you to wonder which duo or trio was where. There was the gymnasium and the basement, the many identical floors with many identical rooms. I never climbed the rickety ladder to the belltower, but Francie did, which makes sense. Francie wasn’t afraid of much. The roof was a favorite spot of mine. You could see the bell tower. You were at level with it, and also got the vantage view of the rest of Albany. Albany, wow. I’d mention wind, but the air was still, mostly. It was summer whenever we were there.

My first visit, I know, was with Maire and Teddy. We left Ted’s place in Maire’s car; she was freshly licensed. We poked around, probably inhaling asbestos, scared as shit of the occasional beeping. Coming from machines implanted during the numerous failed attempts to reconstruct, to turn the grounds into apartments, made between the aughts and when we were there.

Then we returned. And returned and returned, and put people on, bringing the ones from the other schools. The non-Bethlehem-but-still-public ones, who loved it. I know they did. But it belonged to the Bethlehem kids, locationally spiritually. There was a grit to Bethlehem High versus Shaker High, and it’s one I’ll sound stupid trying to describe. Bethlehem’s not-quite-but-almost bumpkin quality that Albany High also wouldn’t want any claim over. Maybe it’s summed up in the horse farm that sits across from Bethlehem Central, or Meads’ family farm on their namesake lane just down Delaware Avenue.

Meads’ was another spot Bethlehem kids gave life to. We’d shoot there, and at the convent, along with a few other key haunts. We’d whip out the Handycam (belonging to Mr. Holbrook), and film ourselves doing God knows what.

Some days, the filming was organic. There were times I would have no idea Nat was clipping my wrists on the wheel of Tina as I whipped on Meads, moments when Jared caught me half-nude, since the humidity was too unbearable to keep sporting my dad’s Albany Rugby tee. Dad didn’t go there; Mom did. He played for their team, of course. My dad is from the world; he’d be on anyone’s team if they needed it.

Conversely, I remember dressing Francie up in old slips and directing her towards the edge of the building’s roof. It was a wink and nod to the staged suicide from Lana’s “Summertime Sadness” video, but part of the longer narrative I was constructing, told to my favorite song at the time. If I remember correctly, she ended the video covered in fake blood. Blood that was canonically Teddy’s. His character was a deadbeat boyfriend, who smoked blunts and copped Redbull from the Petrol station, if my memory serves me (it does). Francie’s character had had enough. It wasn’t poignant, it hasn’t aged well, but I was excited to make something.

And silly as it was, ordering my friends to mime make-outs and lip sync lyrics to unreleased songs no one else at Bethlehem was listening to (flex), so I could capture it all on camera and post it to Instagram, it was a seed.

There were two videos, made a year apart from one another, both visual manifestations of the value I put on these places. The latter video, I still stand by. These places that make up the bigger place I’d end up leaving just to talk incessantly about in California. My town, Albany, but it’s not quite Albany? Maybe ten minutes outside and more suburban or rural. Both. I continue to gush about this place to people who’ve never been and never will, who have no reason to care about it and don’t. That’s fine.

But two years ago, the news broke that half the convent had burned down. The bell tower went, my own personal Notre Dame. I always liked that if you took River Road downtown, you could see it peek above the treeline. Something was there, beyond the leaves, but you had to seek it out.

And we sought. And milked it for all it was worth. Each spot, monumental as the convent, or memorable as the Petrol station, we squeezed each drop out of. For, at the time, videos, but I know those places are still with me. In my writing, in the conversations I have. These places are with my friends, too. If they weren’t, would we be so rattled by the news that leaving it in post-fire crumbles wasn’t enough, that someone feels the urge to turn it into a data center? Would I feel guttural disgust? Our sweet spot. At least they robbed us of the abandoned train off River Road for good reason. To preserve its boxcars in the transportation museum.

I count blessings, and there is one, I suppose: the graveyard up the hill, closer to the hotel, will remain untouched. The sisters will continue their sound sleep. I continue holding Albany? close. It’s in me, and on the page that was once a Handycam screen and will be something else next, I’m sure. It may be strange to think about and even stranger to say, though I’m not sure anything is strange to say anymore: If, when I die, there is room next to those women in the Albany dirt beneath the Albany grass, I’d be happy to take it for myself. For my bones that are as Albany as the ground they’ll lie in.

Woke up and stayed put. I don’t think I’ve done that since The Plague grabbed hold of me Junior year. But it’s post-grad now, and there’s no rules. I knew I wanted to run, but God woke me up an hour and a half before I intended to embark on my miles, so I stayed put.

I reached for my laptop, and began booking dinner reservations for Japan, where I’ll be two weeks from now. Thank God. Almost makes up for his early wake up call. I stumbled upon a platform that partners with Michelin-starred spots and makes you pay the price of your meal upon reserving. Fine by me! I’m not awake enough to think about the consequences, so a $250 omakase was booked. Landon had no objection, either, so I requested two seats at the counter. I look forward to the diary entry that covers those courses.

And then I was motivated enough to head to Griffith. A 30 minute drive and an energy drink later, and my eight-turned-six miles began. No AirPods, I left them by the door, probably as a result of my straying from schedule. Whatever, I’ll think about last night and take in the trees.

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I am two hours north of where is now considered home, but I’ve been honest with those who’ve been asking (and so many have been), about how it probably will only be so for one more year.

Molly and the rest of them came out to see me finish. She’s about to repeat what I spent the last four years doing just 90 minutes South of where I did it. Which I think technically makes it further from our hearts’ home, Albany, and the rest of them. I want to be with her for the beginning of her California days, because she and I are entwined, and because of the way dad speaks about Santa Monica and Venice and his time spent with Cindy there. Molly and I have been inseparable for as long as I can remember, but lately, our connection is so severe. Our highlighted hair is one in the same, our cousin gets us both looking right. I wrote a one-woman play and joked about how Molly and I went from fraternal twins to identical. Our laughter is conjoined and obnoxious and the best thing to ever happen to me.

The best thing to ever happen to me, hmm. The only thing that might compete with that constant joy Molly brings me is how I spent my California days. I met Julia and Cordelia who are so different now and so exactly the same as they were when I met the bangless and brunette versions of them. They met my brother, aww, but he’s gone.

He saw himself out during year two of my California days, and I’ve told that to those who never met my little brother, aww, to which they say something about how that surprises them. And I don’t know if they say that to be kind, or if it’s honest, but either option is really fine. And I love my little brother, aww, unsettled as he was. I settled things, and carry the best of him, which really is most of him, wherever I go. Even two hours north in a bikini my mom says is too cheeky, the way she’s always saying to Molly and Katie. I’ve joined the hoochie mama regime Amy tries to pillage. I love Amy.

Julia and Cordelia, I’ll go back to them for a moment. They showed me Bainbridge and Wrightsville Beach. I gave them Albany in return, which I hope was enough. It was for me. Julia sat in the hammock the summer I was my most fragile. I read Faulkner that I wouldn’t remember and she looked at me worried. Cordy came through last Spring to see Molly do what she’ll soon be doing in California, singing and making the world laugh. Cordy sat through Kirby family cheese o’clock and catered food at Mom Mom Conway’s. She kept me sane for 48 hours. And back to the one-woman show, I spoke about how Julia and Cordelia, biologically, live sisterless lives. Those lives haven’t been sisterless in four years, though. Not since Andie got involved. When we bickered on day three of Bainbridge and night seven of Wrightsville, that was confirmation of our bond.

My life’s sisterhood started with Katie, who sits across from me and is heading soon to the next spot on my list. New York. Next summer? Think I’ll end up a bit Bushwickian, whereas she’s headed to Harlem. She taught me everything there is to know. Music never mattered until she blared Brockhampton through Tina’s (her red Honda Civic) bass-boosted soundsystem. And Brockhampton shouldn’t matter, but oh it does, as does my inheritance of Tina and the artists I had bless her interiors.

I haven’t driven Tina in years, but I sat, robed-up, waiting for my name to be called, copy-editing magazine articles due in the middle of my ceremony. I got them done, and was happy to do so, because life has become letters, ones that I want to write. Some that I don’t, but oh, who cares. They’re filling my bank account, and the ones that don’t fill my heart or head or wherever needs tending.

So here’s this one, from Santa Barbara, where I won’t be 48 hours from now. And though I speak about the next year from the standpoint of Silver Lake or Miracle Mile, who really knows what will pan out? It doesn’t really matter. I’ll have this computer, where I write, and Julia and Cord and Katie. Molly will be just South. Around the 90 minute mark.

I am in my LA Apparel dress that I bought from their factory store on the way to FKA Twigs in San Diego. Sam was with me. I keep thinking about scheduling plans with him. It is the third dress of theirs I’ve come to own. And the sexiest. It’s like if a tankair cami went just past the butt, and similarly rode up whenever you moved a muscle, resulting in repeated, shameful tugs downward. At least it’s something to do with my hands.

I’ve put on the dress early for Monday’s only firm outing, the Ella Woolsey show. The plan was temporarily rocky last night after Julia regrettably had to bail on me. Neither of us really listen to the girl, but we have an inside joke about her and the circles she runs in, and we wanted to see it IRL. #LAPOS. So, without Jugs, how am I to deal with what will inevitably be a waifish crowd of thinspo from days of yore? I’m being dramatic. Audrey has been gifted the ticket, and we will stop at Erewhon beforehand in silent, satiated protest against Silverlake Skinny.

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Last Spring, I took an advanced directing class here at SC. I was supposed to read Austin Kleon’s Steal Like an Artist. I didn’t. I don’t do well with nonfiction, wasn’t a fan of the professor and was busy burying my nose in R.F. Kuang and Vigdis Hjorth novels that felt more relevant to me at the time. Reading for class is a turn-off, which I don’t have to explain. However, I was attentive while excerpts and themes of Kleon’s work were discussed in class, and I couldn’t help but agree. I’ve long held the belief that originality is impossible in this day and age, and that proud referencing and strongly-held inspirations make for the best art currently produced.

When musical artists develop or evolve their style, it’s a real pleasure, as a fan, to be keyed into the sounds and people that led them there. Nothing hits harder than authenticity, which, for most of us, contains, in part, the expression of our ranging passions and inspirations. No matter the art form, the coolest people have nerdy hyperfixations that show up, consciously or not, in the work they produce themselves.

I think about FKA Twigs’ Grammy-winning album, EUSEXUA. My first impression of this world-built, exploratory body of dance and electronic bangers was that its strong, self-acknowledged nature came from its concise, specific musical drawings. Twigs didn’t hide the imprint that these artists- namely Madonna, Bjork and Kate Bush- had on the record.

Brat similarly finds its confidence and singularity in its homage to great works that came before it. When receiving the Brit Award for the album, Charli cited legends like Aphex Twin and Autechre, and in the same breath named her peers, A.G. Cook and SOPHIE, who fueled the raging fire that this album proved itself to be. In the short time since its release, Brat has established itself as a historic, timeless record, a direct result of Charli looking to both her contemporaries and masters for its creation.

Ethel Cain, another favorite of mine, wears her range of inspirations on her sleeve. Literally. With Nicole Dollanganger and Chelsea Wolfe lyrics tattooed on her hands and arms, she isn’t afraid to claim these musical loves and wear them as badges of honor while she paves her own place in the industry, even surpassing them in mainstream success and musical quality, frankly.

Failure to adhere to Kleon’s advice comes only when this theft is kept hidden or written off as original thought. It’s in poor faith, uncouth and yields poor results. Sons of Brat were born mere months after its world domination (Katy Perry, Demi Lovato, Camila Cabello) and display this improper performance of artistic borrowing. Citing yourself as a successor of someone else can result in success. Take Gracie Abrams and Sabrina Carpenter, who don’t shy away from their pop positions as daughters of Taylor Swift. Their music sounds similar to so many other young songwriters, but their unashamed admission to studying Swift for it earned them spots opening for her in stadiums across the world.

Basically, I’m saying: be yourself. Especially if it’s informed by someone(s) else. And be honest about it. It can take you far.