I need a bra. If thirty-nine was the age in which I began washing my face at night and wearing underwear, then forty-two is when I start wearing bras. It’s not because some lady on TikTok commented, “God, put on a bra!”

I don’t care about her. It’s got nothing to do with her or society at large. It’s more like I’m mature enough to know I should have the option for when I’m around my friend’s husbands and kids, who I’d rather not show my nipples too. Or, if I don’t want to give someone the wrong impression at a business meeting. Some men will take the teensiest, most perfunctory thing, like the silhouette of nip through a somewhat sheer top as a sign of interest, and I do not need that when I’m out here trying to a be a professional.

I consider myself a fairly small breasted person, and tend to wear loose clothes—my hypersensitivity makes me feel claustrophobic in tight things. This includes jewelry and especially bras—which I’ve mostly eschewed. Also, I feel like they just look unnatural on me. The last time I hooked up with a guy, I was strangely embarrassed for him to see me in a bra, which is crazy, because men like lingerie. But I felt a ripple of shame when he noticed and commented, “Oh, a bra!” so I ripped it off quickly and hid it under the couch cushion, hoping maybe he’d forget its existence.

So here we are. I need a bra and I don’t have one, except for the one I hid and some sports ones, because I accidentally donated all the ones I did have when I moved houses. Being a problem solver, I head over to Nordstrom at the Grove, collect a variety in my forever size, 34B —one kinda plain, you know, for business, and some lacy and racy, for a different kind of business—while I try not to faint over the prices. I remind myself: I am a grown woman and my titties are worth the expense.

As I meander around the lingerie department, young Alanis Morissette approaches, asking if I need any assistance. I give her way too much information, sharing the story of my lost lingerie, and she’s satisfyingly shocked and sympathetic. She takes the bras from my hand to start a fitting room, peeks at their labels and says, “I’m pretty sure these aren’t your size. Have you ever been measured?”

Life is long, especially when you’ve been around for 42 years, and also I have hazy glimmers of a lot of my other in and out of body experiences so I can’t be sure if I have or haven’t, and I don’t know how to explain this to her so I just go, “ehh, well…” until she says, “do you want to be?”

This sounds like a fun adventure so I say yes! Say yes to life, people!

In the dressing room I pull my t-shirt up, exposing bare nipples to the wall while young Alanis stands behind me and wraps her tape measure around my rib cage. This intimacy gives me anxiety. It’s been a long day and I hope I smell nice. She chuckles when she gets her measurement and says she’ll be right back. She’s going to grab some bras “just for size”.

I’m scared. What if I’m not what I think I am, chest-wise? What if I feel disappointed by the truth? I guess I’m always scared when I’m measured or weighed or critiqued or photographed or anytime I have to see myself through the lens of someone else’s eyes or societal standard human constructs or whatever. I suppose this is normal, but it’s funny. Why should we get upset about what is and what we simply are? Facts needn’t be so emotional, you know?

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Young Alanis knocks on the door, the moment of truth awaits and my heart thumps.

She hangs a few really hideous, old lady looking bras on the hooks. Big, ‘nude’ colored, granny situations and I understand her insulting message: I am old. My boobs are old person boobs and she’s going to put them in their proper place. Jeez, I’m not usually so insecure. What is happening?

I turn again to the wall, totally topless now as she straps me into the ugly, nude that is way too pale for me, over the shoulder boulder holder (that’s the best description for what this looks like) and I wince when the fabric and wires form to my body, glove like. Tears begin to crawl up my throat and into my eyes. I turn to the mirror and she’s smiling and I’m horrified, and I can’t help it —fuck her if she thinks this is what I should wear—but the absolute truth comes rushing out of my mouth.

“This is so ugly.”

She giggles and says, “Don’t worry, it’s just for size, it’s definitely not your style. But it fits, right?” And disappointed, I say, “yep, it sure does.” And then she laughs again like a naughty fairy as I ask the dreaded question, “What size is it?”

I brace myself, time slows to thick, brown molasses as she pauses for dramatic effect and a drum rolls, and then she says…

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I met a girl on Raya. We matched and then she wrote: You are so fucking cool

I told her she was fucking cool too. She was. And beautiful.

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I’m open. Open minded. Down for new adventures and meeting different kinds of people. I’d never dated a woman before, but why not? I’d yet to figure it out with a man and was getting burnt out on the endless series of inevitable bummers. And I love women so much. Maybe this is because I’m gay. One can only hope. A girl can dream. Maybe I’m gay and don’t know it yet because I’ve been societally programmed to believe I’m straight. This was my thought process when I changed my Raya preferences, opening them up to see and be seen by both men and women.

Bring it on, I thought.

Andy was the most exciting prospect I’d digitally bumped up against in awhile. Talented. Smart. Hot. She seemed excited about me too. We made a plan to meet for coffee near her apartment. She had no car. If this was a dude with no car I might have thought otherwise about proceeding. I’m not sure why I wasn’t bothered by this with a woman. Maybe I just related. I’ve been a girl without wheels.

I arrived early to the coffee shop, like always. It’s an annoying habit of mine, perpetually too punctual. I texted her and asked what she wanted to drink. When she arrived she offered to Venmo me for her coffee. How silly. I can pay for my date. For coffee. What about food? What if we’d gone to dinner? Would I have paid? I wouldn’t want to if it were a date with a guy. Men typically get paid more than women. I was pretty sure I had more money than this girl, based on the several comments she dropped about being broke. So I guess this made me the man.

Occasionally, I’ve dreamed of being a man. One time in a dream I was having sex

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• Curiosity - anything that strikes it, follow that.

• That first date. The second one too - I used to believe I was able to read people and situations quickly—that my discernment was sharp intuition. I jumped to conclusions and made snap judgments and in retrospect, I was often wrong. Some of the best people reveal themselves slowly. Of course there are those who really have little going on beneath the superficiality, or your immediate instinct to dismiss was correct. But in others you’ll discover a depth so endless and vast that your mind will be blown. There’s no way to experience the gift of knowing someone without time.

• Jumping in the lake even though it’s completely black and you’ve no idea what’s down there.

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Greetings from Sweden. Actually, I’m in Estonia now. Do you know where that is? I didn’t either until I looked it up last week when my boyfriend said we were going there. Before this, we were in Stockholm and then to the countryside for a super secret, underground, invite only, forest rave. Where I camped for the first time in my life.

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I would consider it camping. It was proposed to me as such. We may have stayed in a cabin and not the initially intended tent, because I may have said I wouldn’t come if sleeping on the ground in a tent was a real possibility.

But still, there was no electricity or running water. Which means no shower and no toilet. If you know me, you’re laughing right now because in Holly-land this means no fun. But in Swedish fairy-land, indoor plumbing is not necessary for having a good time, so I had to resort to the motto I used to get me through childhood: “If you can’t beat em join em.”

And just like childhood, I found ways to cope with the trauma…

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The last time I made a manifestation list I thought it would be both funny and helpful to share with the world. It turned out to be surprisingly prescient. There really is such power in being open and speaking your wishes out loud to the universe. Plus, you never know who’s listening here on earth. So why, when my finger hovered above that publish button, did I cringe to the full extent of the word and feel like the slimiest little worm known to man?

What is it about being seen as wanting, or needing, or trying, or even caring that makes some of us squirm? It is quite revealing, admitting these things. Someone might think or say, “You don’t deserve that. You’re not good enough for that. Who do you think you are?”

In exposing desire, you can see my soft parts, the places in which I might be vulnerable to attack. And really, sometimes existing and having needs is just plain fucking embarrassing. To have it all together, and always be okay is really how I’d prefer to be perceived. This is my own shit though. Growing up, I felt punished for existing, but that’s another story. YUCK. I hate needs!

Anyway, I’m trying to get over it. Contrary action, right? Also, the craziest thing happened. That last list I shared came true, like to a T. It was so exact, I’m still a little scared I’m hallucinating and this has been a really long dream. Did you hear about the woman who was in a coma and had what they’re calling a dream of falling in love, marrying, giving birth to twins, raising her children for seven years? She woke up after three weeks, having lived a seven year life span and is now in grief counseling.

If this isn’t proof that nothing is real, it’s all just our imaginations and we have no fucking clue what consciousness and dreams even are, then I don’t know. I DON’T KNOW ANYTHING. I do know that manifestation is real. Here’s what I’m currently manifesting.

1. Brands, designers, and clothing labels send me stuff to wear on Manthropology—clothes, shoes, bags, accessories.

   Lord hear my cry, I have to wear a different outfit every time I go on camera, which these days is every day and I cannot afford to shop right now! HELP!

   Also every day, I get hundreds of comments asking me what I’m wearing, who made my shoes and on and on. How is it that brands aren’t clamoring to dress me? HELLO?! Bonus points if they pay me to wear their clothes, invite me to their runway shows and have me star in their campaigns. I am ready for this life.

2. A JOB - I have a job. And I am great at it. I’m writing, interviewing, making videos, making my show, filming, editing 24/7 AND getting it all to go viral. Can someone please pay me for these skills now?

3. Julia Fox and SZA are guests on Manthropology. I love them so much. And apparently they love Manthropology. They left comments, their comments blew up, and now I think they need to come chat with me about men. Don’t you agree?

4. A week in New York, filming in the streets with celebrity guests. And I want to stay at The Bowery Hotel!

5. More confidence aka less self doubt. I would love to eliminate any shred of self doubt that still lingers within and just own it all. My vibrance and greatness. Can you imagine if we all let ourselves shine? I’m manifesting this for you too, btw.

6. 500 paid Substack Subscribers. Let’s do this. Let’s create a community where we can all chat and support each other’s dreams. I would keep my Substack chat free, but it gets inundated with weird dudes trying to show us their dicks. So please join the club so we can manifest in peace and I can pay my rent.

Also behind the paywall… some of what I’ve manifested already. It’s actually quite bonkers to see it all written out…

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We’ve all done it. Dated a loser. Or two. Hopefully you’ve grown out of it. Got some standards. Learned to be alone, to be picky. To not settle for the first guy who comes sniffing around showing you some crusty, moldy old crumbs of attention.

So, what does she see in him? Or, more likely, what is she not seeing, having been blinded by dickmatization. Classic. You delicately mention some of his inadequacies, whatever they may be, using non confrontational language, maybe in the form of a question so she can self reflect.

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Maybe you carefully relay the story of something you witnessed. The time he spoke down to, or embarrassed her. The comment he made about your ass when he was blackout drunk. Right before he pissed himself. She defends him. To the ends of the earth. And suddenly, you’re the one getting clipped. You’re the bad guy.

When I was single (chronically so, because I refused to settle) this was always me, the one getting ditched. Longstanding weekly dinner plans evaporated, weekend walks and co-working sessions disintegrated. The three times a day phone calls faded and I felt the absence like glaring best-friend shaped black holes punched in my stomach.

Now that I have a boyfriend, I’ve done it too. Replaced hours of girl stuff, like voice-noting back and forth, for time with my guy, who I have an intimacy with that cannot be matched. I understand both sides.

But my boyfriend is awesome. I have no complaints and I waited years, passing on every opportunity to settle for mediocrity or worse, before entering into actual domestic bliss. And in those years I watched so many women more than settle and slip away into their new lives that had been swallowed up by these dude whales. Suddenly, the only conversations we ever had were about their relationship dramas and problems. So many problems. Is it supposed to be that difficult?

Sometimes, I was lucky enough to be invited around. Third wheeling, my favorite. In these situations I got to experience their new men for myself and with my very own eyes I saw:

• An adult man in skinny jeans rolling around in happy baby position on the floor after a beautiful meal cooked by a good friend in her gorgeous home that she owned.

• The son of a billionaire who, at the end of the meal, waited for us to toss in our credit cards. Me and his girlfriend.

• A severely unemployed man telling my friend she looks like a farm animal.

• A man reeking of weed, who brought his gun to dinner and whipped it out to be funny.

• Another who pulled out the board game he created on pieces of construction paper taped together because he was too cheap to buy poster board, and spent the next two hours explaining how to play. It never made any sense.

• A man who got wasted at dinner, mocked his girlfriend and blatantly stared at me the entire night.

  I could go on, but you know the stories, you’ve experienced them too. And while all of this feels terrible to both be privy to and to know your friend has not only accepted but embraced this so fully she allows it inside of her literal body—for me it cuts extra deep because it happened with my mom. My mom ditched me for a bad man.

READ ON for tea on my mom + the only thing you can do in this situation…

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The moment the glass touches my lips, I enter a portal into another dimension. The person who is writing this, the “me” who I think I am, isn’t able to access the goings-on of the “other dimension” me. She is free to wander this earth as her own entity. I have no control over what she does, what she says, or what she thinks.

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I shouldn’t be held responsible for her actions, but unfortunately, I will be. It seems her wants and needs are different from mine, based on the little evidence I have of her existence. I have no access to memories of her. When I return to my “me” state of consciousness, I lose her totally. Although, when I say “me” or “I”, I actually I don’t even know who the fuck it is I’m referring to. I am a stranger to myself, in all forms of consciousness.

Mornings are spent searching for clues, I play detective in my own real-life mystery. Always waking up in a panic, it’s a huge relief if I discover that I’m home, in my bed. Blind without my contact lenses, I feel around in the sheets, searching for my phone, hoping that it’s the only thing I find.

I’m impressed how the “other dimension me” never loses anything. Phone, keys, credit cards, drugs, purse, cigarettes, clothes, everything is usually in it’s right place. I feel proud of her for this fact. She must be obsessive-compulsive, like me. I scroll through the phone, trying to figure out her whereabouts, and who she was talking to, like a suspicious lover, terrified of what I might find. She makes a lot of calls.

It seems pretty obvious that she doesn’t like to be alone, which is interesting, because I only want to be alone. She calls people that I have sworn off, and promised myself I’d never be caught dead with, for the rest of my days. She stays on FaceTime with Dan P. for three hours. I wonder what they talk about. Its highly likely that he too, is in his “other dimension” state of self, and they are having a conversation that will never be known in our realm.

Sometimes, people message me to ask if I’m okay. Eric, another guy I thought I was done with, tells me that she called him crying, and told him that she doesn’t want to be alive anymore. I try to laugh it off, but I can’t help but worry about what she might do, behind my back, without my knowledge.

When I try to break it off with Brett, he wails, “but you told me you loved me!” This is a shock to me.

Read on…

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Less than fifteen minutes later when we passed by that curb again, it was gone. Almost as if it was never there. Did we imagine it? Was it real? Is a woman’s power real?

I certainly scrutinize my own, all the time. Can I take credit for the miracles I may have manifested into my reality? Are these instances of mystical collaboration with a greater force, something divine that I tap into because of my great power? Or are they just random coincidences?

As a kid, my thinking was magical, believing I could start fires and move objects with my mind. Maybe all kids in the nineties had these fantasies. But as I grew, serendipities in my life occurred with such frequency that they could only be categorized as a pattern.

Somehow, I created my desires through my words and thoughts so specifically that they felt like supernatural events. Yes. I am powerful and dangerous. All women are. I’ve heard so many stories of my girlfriends finding lists they made years back, describing their lives, dream homes, partners and jobs and realizing they got EXACTLY what they asked for.

But still we question it, explain it away, chalk these up to pure chance. Why do we do that? Why can’t we women just take some fucking credit for once in our goddamn lives? Maybe because it’s scary and dangerous to own our power. And even more so to expose it. We might be shunned, mocked or even killed. I often wonder if I have some kind of witch wound from having been burned at the stake in a past life.

And now, the more visible I become and the more power it gives me in the world, the more threats of death, rape and all around violence I receive daily in my comments, DMs and emails. The drive to survive is our most prevalent, even if just subconscious. Maybe that’s why we hide. But why are these men so upset about me and my work; my writing and interviews?

Does my power terrify them? Does it dull or lessen theirs? Are they afraid of what I’ll do with it? Maybe they should be. But women generally aren’t like men, when it comes to harnessing their power.

Anyway, fuck it. I’m done hiding. I’m going to out myself, right here and now. I am magical. Maybe even a witch. All women are.

Here are some mystical stunts I’ve pulled off and would now like to claim as my own doing. I’m ready to take credit.

1. Parking spots! I always get a parking spot right out front of anywhere I’m going. Always. As I pull up to my location, I envision it in my mind’s eye. I see the car pulling away just in time, or the empty spot waiting for me. I did it just now, at the coffee shop where I’m currently writing this. The whole street was packed, so I concentrated hard on seeing it and then it became real. Also, bonus points because my meter was broken, so it was FREE.

2. I made the wind blow - Years back, I was floating in my friend’s swimming pool, when I randomly felt a rush of power move through me, so great I stood up and yelled, “Watch this!” I started waving my arms around and shouted WIND! The air had been stagnant and quiet, but in that moment, the trees shook, leaves fell in the water, and a red dixie cup flew off the table. Then the air returned to absolute stillness.

My friend looked terrified, but of course I thought it was a hilarious coincidence. To calm him, I said I would do it again. Like, to prove it wasn’t me. I did it twice more, each time the gusts escalated, knocking things about, causing ripples in the otherwise placid water. My friend was so freaked out he asked me to leave and to never speak of this again.

3. I accidentally hexed one of my exes - I wrote in my diary, I WISH HE WOULD JUST GET SO UGLY so no one wants to fuck him anymore! (He’d cheated on me a bunch.) The next time I saw him, he looked weirdly terrible—bloated and like his face was melting. The strangest part… he whispered to me, “I know what you did to me, you witch.” (Side-note: I don’t recommend cursing people, because karma. I’m very careful about wishing ill upon people now. Don’t do it!)

4. I proclaimed I would get so famous that a different ex wouldn’t be able to escape me because I would be everywhere - I said “He will have to see me and hear my songs!” The next time I saw him was on a red carpet at the premier of a TV show I was in. Then I went on stage with a 25 person gospel choir backing me up and sang a song I wrote about him, knowing he was in the audience. The best part is, ten years later I wrote a story about the whole situation and it went SUPER viral.

4. Wrote a list called my dream boyfriend and posted it here. Two weeks later, I met him, exactly to a T. Months later, when I read him the list, he thought I’d written it about him.

5. A few weeks ago I was uncertain of how to get to the next level of my career and bummed about it. I felt stuck. My boyfriend suggested I get really clear and write down what I want to happen, just like I’d done with him. So I meditated, figured out what I would like to occur next, and was very detailed and specific when I wrote it out in my journal. The very next day, I got a DM…

There are countless examples of bizarre instances that I was ready to write off, or hand credit over to something or someone outside myself. Too many to list. Earthquakes at strange times, seeing things before they happen…. But now I’m going to go ahead and say it was me after all, all along. Let’s just be powerful and dangerous, and OWN IT.

Here are some hot tips to amplify your power:

These work, so really be careful what you wish for. xx

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To better understand the mind of an average man I decided I must become one. So for one day, I acted as if—living out all my average man dreams, doing as I perceived an average man would do. Here’s what happened:

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1. You get hotter - you take better care of yourself, in general, mentally and physically.

2. Better style - more money to shop, sure, but more confidence with which to wear the clothes. More awareness of what suits you, what colors wash you out, and what shapes flatter. Though, hopefully you give less fucks and just wear what brings you joy. The older I get, the more childish my outfits become:

3. You are more in tune with what belongs in your body - Food. People. Substances. You make better choices. Drink more water. You prioritize feeling good. Feeling good leads to looking good. Your relationships are healthier, all around.

4. You are more in tune with what NOT to put in it - Food. People. Substances. Nothing drains the life force faster than being in the wrong relationship. Being in one that isn’t lifting you up can literally make you ugly. Same goes even for the wrong dick. Do not put that in you. After forty, it’s also time to put down the really gnarly drugs, binge drinking, and all the other stuff that makes you feel like shit. Feeling like shit is not fun!

5. Your skin glows - you’re more comfortable in it. You have better skin care. You learned about sunscreen, and retinol. You get facials and laser treatments. At the very fucking least you wash your face at night. You drink water. Right? Don’t you? You better.

6. Your brain sharpens - Are you meditating? If you’re taking better care of yourself in general, you’ll be smarter, quicker and more funny.

7. Your sex life vastly improves - Everyone should know how to properly fuck by now. Your pleasure is a priority and you’re not embarrassed to ask for it.

8. You feel more settled - as long as you don’t settle. Stay single and settle into yourself until you meet someone who is worth it. They should make your life better, easier and more fun.

9. Your vision sharpens - If you need glasses, they’ll bestow you with twenty-twenty vision. But aside from all that, you will have far more clarity about situations, people places and things. Your life vision will crisp.

10. You have more fun - life isn’t so serious and now you’ve been through enough to know this. You don’t need permission or substances to have a good time.

11. You learn the importance of sleep - sleep becomes a priority. Beauty sleep is called that for a reason.

Here’s an exact breakdown of what I do (med spa treatments, products, etc) to stay on top of being hot as I wander deeper into my forties:

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I’ve upped my meds (Wellbutrin, in case you want to quell the voices too) since my near nervous breakdown at The Grove last year, from which an ugly baby saved my life. I’ve been mostly great ever since. Intrusive thoughts, it’s called. I actually didn’t know there was like, a medical term for what was happening. I just thought there were two, very separate me’s within myself.

I’m sorry to paywall, but it’s deeply personal and to be extra honest, I am in desperate need of some new clothes. Have you ever just loathed every single thing in your closet AND had to appear on camera like, every single day? Yeah, well it’s been a broke girl summer for me, so your support means both the world and less nervy b’s.

Without further ado, I present to you, the story of UGLY BABY:

I might throw up.

It’s Saturday. The sun warms my scalp and a gentle breeze carries the scent of Orange Blossom and Jasmine coming into spring’s first bloom. I’m at the Grove, in search of a few items for my new apartment. I love the Grove. It’s bright and clean and feels as if nothing bad could happen here.

In my mind a war rages. Me vs. Me. I’m wrestling and squirming to get away from this feeling, observing impulses that roil up from the black hole within, like smoke signals to my brain where they form thought bubbles:

I wish a stranger would walk up to me and hug me.

I make eye contact with a woman. Her breasts are two, perfect, birthday party balloons under a crisp, white T-shirt and I imagine the feeling of them pressed against my rib cage. Then she wraps her talon like fingers around my throat, claw nails digging into my flesh as she squeezes with all her might.

I want her to choke me to death.

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It’s Saturday and the air smells like campfire. We quickly learn it’s actually freon and the rotting flesh of cows, chickens and pigs. Probably lobsters too. A warehouse is on fire in Boyle Heights. Something is always burning these days. My head feels funny and we keep sneezing.

We have a whole, fun day planned. Dinner at what was once was one of my favorite restaurants in LA—in a garden under a fairy light covered tree—though I haven’t been in years. An art opening and a good friend’s fortieth birthday party. But when my boyfriend asks, “Should we get out of here?” I respond, “Let’s go!” Because duh.

I’m lucky. Not only is my boyfriend an actual golden retriever, but he is also a spontaneous and fun person, so we decide to hop in the car and drive up the coast. I manifested this. I always wanted a boyfriend to drive up the California coast with, and when he suggests visiting Hearst Castle, I am reminded once again that I am an actual, magical witch. I love castles.

First we stop by Laurel Supply for car snacks. They’ve got those Japanese toilets with heated seats, so if you go, I recommend visiting the restroom. I feel bad for the men who stand to pee—they’re really missing the loveliest part. Warmth on the backs of your thighs! We grab some nice popcorn made healthy because it’s dusted in chlorophyll—which is what makes plants grow—and a bag of date and nut treats. And of course, a matcha latte.

A couple hours in we’re a little hungry so we pull off in Montecito for lunch. I’ll be real. I’m not all that hungry, I really just want to run into Oprah, who lives here. I use my witch powers and work hard in my mind’s eye to conjure her walking into the restaurant—one of our faves—at the same time as us. She’s not here, so I settle for a kale chicken salad with peanut dressing and deviled eggs. French fries too. I love this place because they bring you several sauces without your asking. Why must we ask? We all want aioli AND ketchup, right?

The bathroom is blasting jazzy muzak and relatively clean for a busy Saturday. How cool would it be to bump into Oprah in the bathroom? I would offer her a piece of gum. Normally to bond with a lady in a bathroom you ask for a tampon but Oprah famously has already gone through menopause so that might make things awkward. Too bad though, because I do have my period for real.

Back on the road and after an hour or so, I have to pee again. By Pismo beach, I’m busting at the seams so we pull into a brewery. This bathroom is scummy, smells, and crowded with girls gathering outside a stall to check on their friend. I pee as fast as possible to avoid hearing the sound of vomit. If someone near me pukes, so do I.

Finally, we arrive at our little beachfront hotel in San Simeon. The room is not fancy. It’s actually kind of funky, probably unchanged since 1970. But it has a fireplace and a giant sliding glass door that walks right out onto a cliff overlooking a rocky beach. It’s chilly and foggy outside so the whole vibe is mystical. After a walk along the scraggly cliffs edge, I shower.

For a long time I freeze under the steaming running water. There is a bug that might be a tick, chilling on the shower curtain. It’s watching me and I’m watching it. I hate killing though, so I let it just sit there. Ticks don’t live on curtains, right? Right. I think that’s correct. I get into a robe and when I emerge, my man has built a cozy fire.

We are just exhausted and the fire kind of smokes up the room and is really taking its sweet time going out, and again, we are inhaling thick, grey, who knows what exactly. Ironic. We have no choice but to sleep with the sliding door open, as it’s the only ventilation. There is not even a screen so my boyfriend makes a booby trap out of furniture. At the very least, if someone tries to get in, they’ll crash into a table and chairs, and cause a ruckus. We don’t account for animals until the next day, but breathe sighs of fresh air and relief as nothing came bumping in the night. At least nothing that we are aware of.

At a diner breakfast overlooking the sea, we scan the menu when I happen to look up just in time to see a giant spout of water, spraying up from the ocean. “Is that a whale?” I scream. We stand and run to the window, watching the magnificent creature breach, water blasting from its blowhole, as it flaps its massive fin against the choppy surface.

This is my first whale sighting. Ever. In my life. My eyes are wet and I am certain this is an omen. A sign of my changing luck after a challenging year. But of course, then I must wonder if I could get any luckier. Looking back on what I’ve just written, it seems I’ve got it all.

Oh and the bathroom in this restaurant was totally unmemorable. I cannot recall it at all. That’s probably a good thing!

STAY TUNED FOR PART TWO! And behind the paywall is a list of restaurants and hotels that appear in this story along with links and descriptions. I just don’t want to totally blow up my favorite spots!

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Then came real boys, who showed me their penises and tried to kiss me on the playground. The boys who wanted to play doctor. Who teased me till I cried. The one who called and sang Michael Jackson songs to me while my parents listened in on the landline. The man in the street who gave me the sparkly green Schwinn with a banana seat that I was too little to ride, just because I said I liked it. The doctor who asked if my bottom was as pretty as my top. The photographer who offered to pay me to masturbate while he watched. I was sixteen.

Ads on bus-stop enclosures I modeled for, stolen. Glass shattered in a mall window and nothing but a life-size cardboard cut-out of me taken from the store. A man that called my phone a hundred times a day and breathed heavily. Love letters and animal bones from “a secret admirer” in my various mailboxes. Every time I moved to another house or apartment, which was often, he found my new address. More bones, more letters. The men that frequented my various jobs at the mall, at the Wine Shop, coffee shops, Malt shop, the pub. All of them sitting in a booth or at the counter, casually pretending to write in their notebooks, ordering coffee, browsing a menu, but really, just an obvious excuse to stare.

The men who would get me alone in a room and start crying, sobbing, spittle flying from warped mouths. Hungry for my taste, saying they couldn’t stop thinking about me, jerking off to me, they loved me, they wanted and needed me. Men I barely knew, breaking down in terrifying ways while revealing their strange obsessions with me. But it wasn’t me, not really, only my face and body—an idea of me.

Find out how I felt about it…

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A common trait of addiction is a feeling of fatal uniqueness. Like you’re so fucking special, no one could possibly understand or relate to your plight, your pain. Like no one has ever experienced your specific set of problems, quirks or proclivities.

But the sad reality is that addiction is inherently generic and cliche when synthesized and boiled down to its purest form. To its tiniest, crystal clear nugget of truth. (No, don’t smoke that!) The overarching arc of an addict is the same, no matter who you are, what your background is, or what you were addicted to.

So why is it that the ways in which we recover—like really, truly get better—do not look the same for everyone? It’s not the sisterhood of traveling pants, not one size fits all. I tried to do it their way. I tried to conform. I only continued to fuck up my life, to rebel, to go further in the wrong direction.

Who was I rebelling against? Myself, I suppose. Because what I really wanted was a beautiful, fun, interesting and exciting life. And you can’t have that when your head is in a toilet bowl until 5 pm everyday.

After a head injury that clarified how very life or death my situation was, I relented to the good old standards, the classics if you will, and gave in to those 12 steps. Turning my will over to God, and also to the flawed individuals whose voices, when grouped together rang with one resounding message: I was sick. My instincts were not to be trusted. Forever, I would be saddled with this disease.

Maybe it’s the definition of recovery that needs to be addressed. Maybe my version is different from yours. Because, while so much of what I learned was helpful, when I left the confines of the church basement and discarded the belief that I was inherently a problem, I got better. I left behind everything I’d ever been taught to think, do and feel. I turned upside down and inside out, a giant life overhaul, clipping ties to the people, places and things that kept me small.

You can’t heal in the place that made you sick. The voices and ideas that I’d put my trust in, above my own. It wasn’t even totally about quitting drinking—though that part was crucial—because the alcohol was just a symptom of how backwards my perspective was and whose influence I was under.

Today my life is unrecognizable from then. I’m not sick anymore. I know it in my bones and refuse to label myself as such. Fuck that. My healing and the ways in which my life has changed are based on one fundamental truth that defies what I was told while in traditional recovery. Trust in myself. And that’s why I do drugs. Because I trust myself to do them responsibly, as God intended.

This is not advice! Don’t do as I do! This is just my story and it’s not over yet. It still remains to be seen how it will all shake out in the end. But I do think it’s important to talk about other ways of doing things—freeing us from shame. So listen to yourself, your gut. Unless your gut is twisted up and leaky. Then listen to a doctor. But make sure it’s the right one. Or listen to the trees. I don’t know who you should listen to.

I listen to me. And I say, having so much fun is of utmost importance for my mental state. Fun is also an important thing to define, seeing as I no longer consider passing out in my puke fun. Blacking out and disappearing for days, also not fun! Losing control of my faculties, losing sight of my true desires, losing in general, so very NOT FUN.

Below is a list of what drugs I will and will not do, and why.

1. Alcohol - I will not drink…

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Not sure when this realization hit and the phrase became prominent in my lexicon but its veracity came to light yesterday when I visited a real doctor. Allegedly. My primary healthcare physician.

Let’s start with the office. It’s in a typical medical building in Beverly Hills. Nice, upscale, valet parking. Nothing unusual here. But behind her unassuming door on the sixth floor is an unknown world, ruled by Zeus himself. His giant bust features eyes that follow you when you move.

The signage alerting the clientele of why the waits are so long was definitely not written by AI, which I appreciate, and the receptionist who used to treat me like garbage—I almost enjoyed how rude she was—suddenly has turned kind. I attribute this change in attitude to the likelihood that she watches my TikToks.

But it is in the exam room itself where the real magic unfolds as I greet my doctor

The internet is obsessed with my belly-button so I must put the details of it and what happened at this appointment behind the paywall.

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I’m basically an influencer now so I may as well start sharing what I consume. People seem to eat this kind of shit up. As far as myself, I’m eating too. These days, it’s chicken in a bag. But truthfully, when am I not into bagged chicken? It’s so convenient and super tasty—it can be, if done right.

For the longest time I didn’t have a proper kitchen, so I was forced to try every rotisserie chicken in Los Angeles. I pulled a full blown Goldilocks till I found one that was just right. The best ones are from restaurants, of course, but today we are focusing on the ones in the bags, and the winner-winner of this chicken dinner is Sprouts.

Sprouts is such a cute name for a grocery store, so it’s a shame that the lighting is grey and depressing and the parking lot, so dingy. Also, you get charged every time you enter and exit, at least the one in West Hollywood. Somehow it always costs me like three to ten dollars.

I should stop parking there but I forget. Chicken brain, it’s called, when I get that one track hungry mind. Hungry because it’s the moistest and tenderest of all the bagged chickens in town. Shockingly delicious. Especially when you think about all the luxury grocers in the area, you might not expect Sprouts to have the best one. And if it weren’t for my parking lot problem, the price would be just right too.

I wonder what kind of world we’d live in if women made protein their personality as much as men do. It feels so carnal and exciting to eat it right out of the bag, especially while wearing my favorite bra. And that brings me to what I’m wearing. This summer, for me, is about being absurdly, stupidly sexy so I’ve decided that big boobs are it.

Little boobs are sexy too, but it’s nice to have the option, and this Skims push up bra can give you that. It’s like magic, because, duh, just let your eyes behold the magnificent sight. Mine aren’t usually this full and bouncy. But also it’s weirdly comfortable. And I am known for being anti bra. It’s also smart to eat your chicken mostly naked, seeing as it’s pretty greasy and might drip on you. That too, is part of the fun. Nasty. Afterwards you can go rinse off in your neighbor’s sprinkler system. At least that’s what I like to do.

Currently, I’m reading Lisa Taddeo’s novel, Animal. I love her writing, like my chicken in a bra summer, it’s super carnal, hyper-sexual and strange. If you haven’t read her journalistic masterpiece, Three Women, run don’t walk.

So what is going on with Lisa Taddeo? Not to gossip but…

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I’m not great at parties. You might think I’m gregarious and outgoing but actually, I’m rather shy. Unless I have a reason to talk, like a microphone in my hand, camera in face. Mostly I wait to be approached or just hide in the bathroom to kill time. At this party in the Hollywood Hills, I feel an extra layer of doom, a missing of my shell when I realize I’ve walked into a graveyard of past failed dates. Basically, my Raya come to life.

It’s the holidays so I kind of have to laugh because that whole ghost of Christmas past thing is literal. I decide to be brave and mature — don’t be a weirdo — I say to myself when an apparition appears before me: an alcoholic rockstar I’d had a couple dinners with, many years ago. No need for weirdness on my end, he’d been very sweet, and kind of bumbling. Mostly I felt sorry for him. So I smile big, walk up to him and willingly enter the dreaded awkward embrace.

Unprompted, he tells me he hasn’t been partying very much. He smells sour and fermented and reeks of smoke—my lizard brain is activated. These are the smells of my childhood. But the scent is par for the course, because also at this gathering, there is a time travel element as a silver tray of cocaine is passed around. I didn’t even know this was a thing anymore, with fentanyl and all that. Impressive.

Relief when I come to a long table, filled with lovely charcuterie boards, and delightful cake stands piled high with sugary treats in rainbow colors. I begin shoveling meat into my mouth—my vice of choice these days—when I spot another famous person. Inside of me, a shrinking occurs when I recall being ghosted by him.

Why do we feel embarrassed when someone mistreats us? It was him that did the dirty move. He, who was too much of a baby to just tell me straight that he wasn’t interested.

And then there’s the intel from other women… this is kind of his thing. Us girls, we talk. Honestly though, we only went out one time, and to be super-duper honest, it was I who committed the cardinal sin: talking about ghosts on a first date. Like, how I see them, feel them and my telepathic communion with dead people and sometimes pets. Men hate this shit. I learned my lesson and waited until I was pretty certain my now boyfriend was in love with me before revealing my spiritual-mediumship abilities.

So when the actor disappeared mid text conversation, right while making plans to hang out again, I kind of gave him a break. I wasn’t in a place to be dating anyway—newly sober, newly returned to LA, guest-room and couch hopping.

My mouth is full of meat and our eyes meet and I see a flicker of recognition in his, so again, I say to myself — Holly, be brave, be mature, say hello, don’t be weird.

I swallow my meat and my pride and walk right up to him and generously give my second awkward hug of the night. You know the kind—where you don’t want your pelvis anywhere near theirs for fear of sending the wrong message, so you stick your butt way out while stretching your arms like a t-rex and turn your head all the way backwards so you don’t accidentally kiss or even breath on each other. He seems confused, but he’s polite. Maybe he doesn’t remember me.

He introduces me to the dude he’s with, and says, “Remind me your name…” and I wither inside, transforming into the slimiest little worm. He doesn’t remember me. I wish I didn’t remember him. But he’s famous. So it’s like, of course everyone remembers him. I get it. I’m certain I’ve forgotten people I’ve slept with, and this guy, I didn’t even kiss. I just thought of myself as more memorable, because like, I’m me, but whatever.

“Holly,” I remind him while nodding to the other guy with a sheepish grin and then I slither away. It’s time to go into a corner and die. I’ve had enough of this life. One can only take so much humiliation.

A few minutes later, I’m in a group of women, standing up extra straight to try to counteract my butt-hurt feelings when he approaches—the actor.

“Holly! I am so sorry. I just realized who you are.”

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I wake at dawn, boil water for my French press, then sit cross legged on the sofa. Once the lucky candle is lit and the soft grey tendrils of Palo Santo twirl towards the ceiling, I pull out my journal and write down all the ways in which I’m grateful. Then I future script everything I want to happen today and this week, as if it already happened. And then I write down how grateful I am for all of that.

I say a little abundance prayer. Well, it’s actually kind of long and if I mess up I have to go back to the beginning and start over. Then I directly call upon my angels and my ancestors; Auntie Tawn and the grandmas that I had tenuous relationships with when they were on earth, but now that they’re in the sky, I feel certain they have my back. My grandfathers that I never met. Auntie Anita. My childhood dog, Chester and cat, Max.

Not my bird, Charlie because I accidentally murdered him, but hopefully he’s forgiven me. My spirit guide—the giant lizard this psychic told me I’ve had with me for centuries, in many lifetimes. All the archangels. Sky daddy God, even though I don’t fully believe in such things, but better safe than sorry. The universe. The stars and moon and sun. The divine mother. And of course, Oprah.

Then I do my Transcendental Meditation, where I effortlessly focus on my mantra and let it all go. Afterwards, I step outside and take in the rays of the sun, which has now fully risen. I name three things I’m proud of myself for. This is a ritual that a witch taught me. My mother’s critical voice had been stuck in my mind, not allowing me to celebrate any aspect of self, just criticize, criticize, criticize. So now I must be good to that inner child. I return indoors and sink to my knees before my altar, draw three tarot cards, and rub crystals all over my naked body. Little Holly needs this.

I do my living room exercises, a series of push-ups my boyfriend taught me, and some ab stuff. Then, a four mile walk around my hilly neighborhood. In the shower, I say more prayers because water is a conduit to the manifestation overlords. Once I’m feeling all fresh, I need to have sex with my boyfriend—for the magical properties of course.

It gets even better behind the paywall!

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My father is also on tv. When he’s not in the screen, I can hear his voice on the radio and I feel close to him. I learn that this is what to expect from a man. They should be larger than life, untouchable in a sense. Regular men in the real world seem dull to me. Especially the ones in my hometown of Minneapolis.

People my own age, also dull, immature and annoying. I hate it when anyone refers to me as a child or treats me like a a kid. I squirm when they say I’m cute. I’m not cute, I’m pretty. I’m not a baby. It’s frustrating, because even though I appear to be seven, I know I’m grown-up. I think and speak like one, read adult novels and I go to work like one. Yet here I am, trapped in this tiny frame. Wide awake all night staring at the glow in the dark stars on my ceiling, suffering from the pain of my growing bones.

As a young teen, my favorite book is Lolita. I am repulsed by Humbert Humbert, but something about his obsessive love and unwavering adoration for young Dolores—and the horrifying lengths at which he’ll go to keep her in his purview stirs an intense yearning in my bones. I want to be wanted. Desperately.

Where does this come from? Recently, in present day, I watch a psychologist on TikTok explain why a young girl might be attracted to an old dude. She says if her father is present she would never sexualize an adult man because she has one in her home, and understands what that relationships is meant to be. In fact, she’d be grossed out by the idea of romance with someone older. My dad is always on tour.

At fifteen, I’m introduced to a boy at the mall where I work. Instant sparks. He’s concerned about my tender age, because he is not a boy. He is a twenty-year-old man. His friends are in their 20s, as is his ex-girlfriend. No one is happy about our budding relationship, especially not our families.

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Of course, there are those of us whose mothers created our flesh and carried us here to earth in their bodies, only to leave us behind. Maybe she’s dead. Maybe she’s getting loaded outside of a 7/11. Or in Florida, cozied up to some creepy guy with a comb-over that she met at a party.

Some of us have the kind of mothers that did it all wrong; putting their own desires and needs ahead of their children’s. But is that so wrong? How did we decide what constitutes a “bad mom”? And do the bad moms deserve to be punished? Or are they just flawed humans, like we all are?

Mother has got to be the most loaded words in the dictionary, in any language. And in being one, you can’t win. Not being one, same. If you’re a woman, you’ll never escape the fiery tentacles of Mother, in all its iterations and meanings. All the rhetoric you hear people say, the shit you know people think and the murky confusing stuff that exists only in the collective subconscious. But all of that can be summed up in another word: JUDGMENT. Oh and let’s not forget: GUILT.

Because of all this expectation—the “shoulds” and “supposed-tos”—the sour-cream-chive-cheddar-bacon-baked-potato of all things Mother, severing ties with mine was the most violently brutal pain I’ve ever known. No more savage an act has ever occurred. My worst fear realized. But in a sense, I suppose it set me free. Now I can kind of do and face anything.

Or maybe it hurt so bad because my mom wasn’t always the enemy or a distant stranger. There actually was no one I loved and adored more. No one I felt closer to. My twin flame—even though that’s generally used in a romantic sense—we were mirrors of one another, and our connection felt like it ran far beyond blood, throughout centuries of lifetimes. I would have done anything to keep her. And I tried all the way to the point where it nearly killed me. Toxic relationships will do that to you. They’ll have you betraying yourself, and straying so far from your inner light you lose all sense who you are, in a darkness so thick you can’t see a way out.

There was a time I thought I wanted to be one. A mother. I’d never had that desire before. Like that biological clock everyone talks about just never kicked in for me. People, usually men, still like to say things like, “you’ll change your mind someday”. They say it so much, it’s hard to know what’s true. Though I was unwavering in my belief.

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