Like pretty much all of us, patriarchal programming and ancestral trauma led me to believe that I had to work hard in order to earn money. I internalized that it was going to be a struggle. And so things that came easy to me I brushed off. Survival mode took precedence and I began to take pride in my ability to survive really difficult shit and go on to thrive. And even as I did my favorite, easy things, I didn’t think to value them in a monetary sense. I neglected my writing, because I was hustling for cash. But now, as I am reaching a breaking point, I realize I’ve been doing it wrong.

Because I think I thought that if I just worked hard enough, if I proved that I could perform the expectations of capitalism well enough, despite hating the whole system, I would be okay. But I’ve never been good at performing those expectations. It’s always taken from me. Despite working harder than ever, I feel like I’m drowning in financial pressure. The more I try to prove to myself that I’m worthy through traditional employment, the worse I feel.

I’ve proven to myself that I can survive hard things, that I can work hard, that I am fierce and resilient. I’ve proven it over, and over, and over again, and I’m done with this pattern. I am no longer “okay with not being okay.” I would like to put that all down, and try a different way.

Now, I am only okay with being okay. I intend to remain whole. Life is hard even in the best of times, but creating the best monetary support system I can for myself using my genius is the way I need to move through it. It’s the work I need to be doing daily. It’s how I need to be connecting. And it’s the way I need to be generating income so that I can share my genius with humanity.

I’m not quitting my survival jobs, but I’m also not moving from desperation. I’m moving from the grounded knowledge that what I have to offer is valuable, and important, and worthy of making an abundant living from.

I don’t have to work harder and push stronger and offer up my insides in tiny pieces to a machine designed to destroy me. I can nurture the talent, wisdom, and skills within to create art and products and offers that people want and need. In the coming weeks and months, expect to see me sharing and promoting myself and my work. I’ll be writing regularly again, likely on as chaotic an assortment of topics as you’ve come to expect here. If you’ve gotten this far (and, hell, even if you haven’t), thank you for being here.

I’d love to know in the comments below, how do you nurture your genius? If you’ve made your genius your purpose, how does it feel?

But a walk is ideal. In my experience, going for a walk has a 100% rate of making me feel better. Lately I’ve been heading out in the afternoon, walking northeast from my apartment into the neighborhood directly west of the Arroyo Seco.

I was stopped in my tracks the other day by this vibrant vine. I don’t know what it is, but it is absolutely gorgeous and validates my feeling that LA in fact does have fall, it’s just subtle. There’s nothing subtle about this color, though.

After my photo shoot with this vine, I continued north up the hill, past the sign identifying the neighborhood as Arroyo View Estates. I’d never gone past this sign before, taking the hill as a sign that it was time to turn around. But this time I pressed on, thinking the road would lead me across the Arroyo into Pasadena. Instead, as I started to ascend the hill, I realized there was a whole neighborhood up here I’d never seen before. Hill after hill lead me to magical yards, stunning views, and one of the most beautiful entries I’ve ever seen.

I crested the hill, Angeles National Forest a stunning backdrop for this idyllic neighborhood. I took a right and then another right, beginning my descent, but not before taking in the breathtaking view of the South Pasadena water tower and, as my gaze moved west, downtown Los Angeles nestled behind green hills. I tried to get a picture but it didn’t do the view justice.

As I neared the bottom of the hill, I kept noticing magical details. A perfectly shaded front yard. A (faux) babbling brook. And, eventually, as I returned to the neighborhood I often explore, this insanely cute dog.

“Hi baby!” I whisper shouted as I got out my phone to snap a pic. “Oh my God, you’re so cute,” I said, not realizing we had company.

“Yeah, she’s really a cute one,” a man in the next driveway said, startling me. He was crouched down in a small gap where his gate was open, adjusting something. “So cute,” I said with a smile, slightly embarrassed. I continued on, soon meeting a very friendly black and white Lahsa Apso and his mom.

I found another stunning tree, sunlight filtering through it’s yellow leaves, before stumbling upon a bougainvillea so breathtaking that it stopped me in my tracks. The sun filtered through it’s delicate petals, the vibrant fuchsia petals glowing. I felt the spirits of my dad and grandmom Elaine, too caught up in the moment to take a picture.

I returned home elevated. Blissful. Yesterday, I took the same route, this time doing some guided EFT tapping and affirmations as I walked. Once again I felt slightly embarrassed. People could see me not only talking out loud to myself, but also tapping my head, face, and clavicle as I did so. “I am not afraid to be seen and take up space,” I repeated after Gala Darling on the recording, cringing a little as I passed two men sitting in a front yard, wondering what they thought of me. Then again, it’s LA. For all I know, they love EFT tapping.

I wonder what I will discover on my walk today.

My new friends were Ali and John, and we settled back into our comfortable quiet, typing into our laptops. I find being around other people incredibly comforting, even if we’re all doing our own thing. I was focused on whatever I was working on when I looked out the window to see a young stylish woman carrying a white chicken under her arm like a fancy bag. I took my headphones off. “Wait wait wait, are you guys seeing this?” I said to my coffee companions. “Yes!,” Ali said, “you are not seeing things.” John hadn’t caught it. “What was it?” he asked. “A girl just walked down the street carrying a chicken!”

Eventually Ali left and after some chatter, John and I resumed our separate tasks. But soon my computer battery died, which prompted another conversation - about outlets in coffee shops. However, we quickly turned to much more complicated matters. John, who no less than two passerby had waved at through the window, apparently the mayor of Highland Park, explained that he is a former speech and debate teacher. A talker like me, John and I chatted for maybe an hour about all manner of topics ranging from overpopulation (which we both agreed isn’t really a problem) to work to family. “I feel like I’m keeping you,” he said, my bag slung over my shoulder.

I looked out the window. “Oh my God she’s back!” This time, John saw the young woman with the chicken. She had white ribbons in her hair and tied to her jeans, and in a moment of cynicism I remarked that she was probably filming something for Instagram. A man standing nearby started taking pictures of her and the chicken, and before I knew what was happening, she did a one-armed cartwheel, the chicken gently cradled in her arm. At this point, John and I both walked outside. Within seconds, he was talking to the chicken girl and I was talking to the man with the camera who was not, as I had first assumed, her Instagram boyfriend.

“I was just standing here and then she walked up with the chicken. She asked me if I wanted to hold it and was like “naw, I’m good.” I looked over to see John holding the chicken. The guy with the camera and I began talking about how young people now are so cool and have so much more information than we did at that age. We talked about how we are still working through our middle- and high- school trauma, and he recalled how the shit-talking at his New Jersey high school was so intense, he saw a paraplegic kid bullying people in the hallway. We chatted for a few more minutes and as I was leaving he held out his hand. “I’m Sean,” he said. “I’m Katy,” I replied. “See you around the neighborhood!”

I got in my car and made a u-turn just in time to see the young woman with the white ribbons and her chicken do another one-handed cartwheel in the crosswalk. Her self-contained joy was infectious. This girl really knows what she’s about, I thought to myself. If I hadn’t had confirmation from my three new friends, I might have thought she was a mirage. Not because the chicken cartwheels were so out of the ordinary (which, obviously, they are), but because of her ethereal vibes, white ribbons dancing around her as she went for a walk with her chicken. Not for Instagram, or any apparent reason, but just because.

Yesterday, for me, taking control looked like deciding to not stay in bed and watch the rain all day, and instead tackle my laundry pile. But this was not your ordinary laundry pile. A more accurate description would be “piles.” When all was said and done I filled five 13-gallon white trash bags with linens and clothes, loaded them in the back of my hatchback, and drove all of one city block to the laundromat.

This might sound like a simple chore, but the truth is this journey was two years in the making. At some point in 2023 I stuffed a big metal basket, the type a midwestern mom might fill with throw pillows, full of dirty linens and “non-priority” clothes and just…left them there. Occasionally when I’d do a big reorganization or clean I’d move the basket from one closet to another, or toss a couple of things on top, but for the most part it sat there, unchanged, mocking me.

Don’t get me wrong, during the intervening two years I did plenty of laundry, just not that laundry. Even on marathon laundry days when I’d knock out six loads, that fucking basket would still be there, stuffed to the brim. Until yesterday, when I decided I’d finally had it.

I thought about how good it would feel to get it all done, to be able to open the door to my closet fully, to feel better in my studio apartment, and to feel triumphant over a problem of my own making. And so, instead of getting under the covers and watching Abbott Elementary, I stuffed the trash bags, schlepped them down the stairs along with my laundry basket, Dreft baby detergent (for my sensitive skin), and extra trash bags for the clean laundry, and took control of my life.

I’d chosen the laundromat over my building’s laundry room for speed. The laundry room only has two washers and dryers, and that it would take me all day to get the laundry done that way. At the laundromat I could stuff it in the giant washers and driers and get it all done at once. It might be more expensive, but at least it would be done.

I was surprised to find that the vibes at the laundromat were pretty good. The older gentleman at the washer next to me showed me how to close the door latch - “it’s in the wrist” he said, as he added fabric softener to his washer. When I spilled detergent, I asked the woman who worked there for help. There was a language barrier, but eventually I remembered how to say “toalla” en Espanol, and she cheerfully handed me a grey dish towel to sop up my spilled Dreft.

I ended up using three machines, and once they were all chugging along, I went and filled my car with gas, came home, got other chores done, and zipped back just in time for my first (enormous) load to finish.

As I ferried my laundry to the dryers using a metal laundry cart, an older woman, who was there with her husband, laughed about hating laundry. “Me too,” I said, smiling, thinking how much more fun it was doing it at this friendly spot. Once all my clothes were in two dryers, I got those puppies humming and popped home again to tidy up.

I can’t tell you how satisfying it was to unload the dryers and stand at the counter folding my laundry, placing it into trash bags, and loading it back into my car. By that point the rain had picked up and it was pouring, but I didn’t mind. I returned back to my remaining laundry, happily listening to a podcast, while a stranger folded his laundry next to me. When it was all done I left, triumphant.

I double parked my car to load it all back into my apartment, parked the car, and then began the process of putting it all away. This is a chore that I often dread or skip over altogether, but something about it felt so good. I had my podcast, I was cozy inside, and each pile that I hung or neatly folded into a drawer felt empowering. I methodically hung shirts, pants, and dresses; folded sweats, shorts, and underwear; and paired and balled up roughly 50 pairs of socks. The feeling of satisfaction, of victory over my own mental blocks, was incredible.

Now I sit in my cute little studio, Christmas lights glowing, listening to the occasional patter of the rain. My closet is organized. My easy chair is available as seating. And most importantly, I’m reminded that the most daunting tasks, the ones we build up and procrastinate for months or years, can sometimes actually be kinda fun.

If the title concerns you, don’t worry, I have lots of friends. But anyone who lives in Los Angeles knows how lonely and isolating it can feel, even when your social calendar is full. And we all know loneliness is rampant under late-stage capitalism. Connecting with each other isn’t just fun, it’s essential for our survival.

I also wanted to root my newsletter locally to more effectively share content, resources, and events that are relevant to my readers. But don’t worry if you are in another city, or even in a more rural area: there is plenty for you here.

While I have enjoyed sharing my writing with you, I have not given my publication the attention it really deserves to have the impact I want. I’ve treated it like a side project, posting when I feel inspired. That changes now.

So what can you expect from this newsletter going forward? I’m so glad you asked. Lonely Angeleno will still feature personal essays from my unique perspective on Los Angeles and life, as well as lists and links you actually want, Q+A’s with friends who are changing the world for the better, voice notes to make you snort-laugh, and monthly photo essays. Posts will be sent out 2-3 times a week.

My intention with Lonely Angeleno is to make you laugh, feel seen and connected, and be in community with other folks living creative and engaged lives. Thank you for being here and being you.

“Ouch, those thoughts are mean,” I think, noticing them recurring. I don’t want my inner voice to be Mean Capitalism. The systems we live within are harsh enough - there’s no reason my inner voice needs to be. I want it to be like my Grandmom’s - sweet, loving, nurturing. Warm and soft and encouraging.

This voice tells me to make soup, to take a bath, to be gentle with myself and others.

I’ve neglected my connection with this voice, and it’s presence feels slightly unfamiliar, but so, so welcomed. I know I can connect with this voice, and my other spirit guides, whenever I want. It’s a practice.

The voice is hers, but it’s also mine. I can cloak myself in our love and protection, making a little nest for my spirit, a safe space to rest, surrounded by all those who have loved me, even those I’ve never met (in the physical realm at least).

Part of me feels hesitant to feel good, to feel safe, to engage in pleasure and enjoyment - an important part of my identity. That feeling can always end, and that’s scary. But the safety is necessary to make good decisions, to act from a place of groundedness and not panic. Abundance and not scarcity. From my desires and not my fears. And what are we here for anyway, if not to take care of ourselves, each other, and have a good time?

I submerge myself in the bath, I light a candle, I put on my pajamas. I roast some squash, blend up a soup. It warms me up from the inside, a hug from beyond the veil. I feel at peace as I listen to the birds chirp-squack outside, music I can’t make out playing from a car window in the distance, a candle burning in the window. I feel grounded. I feel loved.

“Omg same,” I replied. “I was looking through my old material and I know I got laughs, but I was like this is not funny.”

I showed up for the mics even though I wasn’t sure what material I was going to do. I had a list of a few tried and true jokes, but mostly I was planning to figure it out on stage. Four hours and 24 minutes of stage time later, I was elated. I love being on stage, I love standup, and I love being in community. Not all the material I did worked, and I had some unsure moments searching my notes for something, anything, funny. “Hmm…” I said into the microphone, looking into the audience of 5-10 other people. There were some quiet moments, but I also found some material and got some laughs I wasn’t expecting. I had some solid bits that worked. Today I’ll listen to my recordings and write down my best material which I will continue to work on and nurture at future mics.

Afterwards, as I drove south down Lankershim, I marveled at how different I felt then a few hours prior. I walked in feeling unsure, my creative well seemingly dry. But after four hours of exploration, community, and support from my fellow comics, I was elated. I had found my creative flow. I was reminded, as I have been many times before, that you don’t have to feel creative or inspired to create - you just have to start. The creativity will come.

We live in a system that is obsessed with commodification. And so it’s only natural that we feel that pressure when embarking on creative work. But art doesn’t start as good art, art starts as crappy art. You have to do the crappy art to get to the good art. When I go in with the expectation of creating a product, it shuts down my creativity. But when I simply show up for creation, magic happens.

I write this here, as a reminder to myself, to you, and to the universe: when I show up to create, magic happens. When I show up to create, magic happens. When I show up to create, magic happens.

Next time I feel resistance, when I feel uninspired, like the well is dry, I will just start: pen to page, marker to paper, or simply eyes to the sky, watching the clouds, letting my imagination do its thing.

Over the past six years I’ve used pleasure as a tool for self-actualization, healing, and manifestation. It’s helped me restart my life after ending my marriage. It gave me agency when I was going through cancer treatment, and inspired me to forge a new, healing path as that treatment was ending. It helped me balance my nervous system after the last election. Pleasure has allowed me to become my most actualized self, to feel the most me, and to positively impact the people around me. It has had a profound impact on my life.

That’s why I decided to create Pleasure School, a three-hour Zoom workshop for women who want to feel better, more often. Because when you listen carefully - what feels good, what doesn’t - and let that guide you, you create safety in your body. In this workshop you will learn how to incorporate pleasure for self-actualization, resilience, and healing. Through writing, meditation, and a somatic exercise you will unpack your own pleasure story and understand your desires more clearly. You’ll also walk away with tools and rituals for living a more embodied life. Give yourself permission to feel good, invite more joy into your every day, and meet like-minded women who want to experience more pleasure and make a better world.

Pleasure School will be in session on Saturday, November 8 from 10am-1pm Pacific. Click the link to enroll now, and feel free to reach out with any questions. I would love to see you there and create a magical experience together.

I’d love to know in the comments, what are your favorite pleasures, small or big, that help you live your best life?

I stood nervously outside a building at the Brewery Arts Colony, America’s largest art colony, housed in the old Pabst plant in Lincoln Heights, on the edge of downtown LA. The Brewery is a place where Cool People live, and definitely one where cool parties happen. I don’t normally get anxious before social events, at least not like this. Usually I’m like “I’m not nervous, I’m excited!.” This was not one of those times. My heart pounded as I stared up the long, industrial, flourescent-lit stairwell, 1.5 flights straight up with a little landing 3/4 of the way, presumably so one could stop to gasp for air.

Earlier, my outfit pushed the envelope on my heat tolerance. First I had a wardrobe malfunction. Then I couldn’t find my keys. By the time I got to the party, I was overheated. My faux fur coat, a magical number that typically brings me compliments and good vibes everywhere I go, wasn’t helping. The coat signals to other hot girls that I, too, am a hot girl. But it was too hot. So I slung my coat over my arm, picked up my World Wildlife Foundation grocery bag full of nonalcoholic beverages, and ascended the stairs.

When I got to the top, I gasped for air as I waited to be hit with that final blast of adrenaline that often pushes me into uncomfortable situations. Instead I just felt discomfort and dread. The landing was bright has hell, and ugly as fuck. I could hear revelry coming from inside the apartment, and I’d already encountered some costumed party-goers as I’d entered the building. The time was now. My stomach clenched. I opened the door.

My eyes adjusted to the mostly dark loft, as Christmas lights twinkled across the room. Ahead of me, at the end of the entry hall, was a large room full of people, and I knew exactly one of them. I wanted to avoid walking directly into the throng of people in the living room, so I took a sharp right and headed to the kitchen to put down the liquids. The person who invited me to the party was no where to be seen, and I tried to take in the faces of the costumed strangers in the dark crowded space without seeming weird. A bartender dressed as Puck from A Midsummers Night Dream informed me that all nonalcoholic beverages were in a cooler on the floor, behind a woman wearing a corset dress and a head piece with antlers on it. I smiled, indicated that I was hoping to access the cooler, and cracked open a cold Waterloo as the woman introduced herself.

It’s at this point that I should probably give you some backstory on how I came to attend this, as it was billed in the PaperlessPost, “costumed bacchanal.” I’d been invited a couple of weeks prior by Ethan, someone I met on an app. We’d been texting for a few weeks, and had a very fun coffee/sex date.

Ethan is poly, something we’d discussed at coffee. I approach poly with caution, because in my experience, most people are doing it badly.

A week or so later, after some more texting, Ethan invited me to his birthday party. The party theme was Greek mythology, and he encouraged guests to dress as figures of temptation. The invite and accompanying website were impressive. I was thrilled to be going to a party - a party party, a crowded loft party, a dozens of costumed strangers party. Because Ethan is genderqueer and pansexual, I assumed the vibe would be sexy, queer, and flirty.

But here I was, standing outside the kitchen, chatting with a beautiful woman and her Dilbert-looking husband, coming to the realization that a) I had no idea who Ethan’s nesting and secondary partners were, much less the other people he dated casually or his parents, who were also in attendance, and b) this was not the queer pleasure gathering I’d envisioned in my head, where sexy, embodied women with sparkly eyes and ample cleavage laughed at my jokes. As I scanned the crowd I realized, to my horror, that I was, in fact, at a party full of cosplaying nerds. Record scratch.

Dilbert motioned towards a small bedroom adjacent to the kitchen. “That’s the drug room,” he said. “You should check it out.” You don’t have to tell me twice. A low credenza in the dimly lit room held clusters of LED tealights, on-theme decorations, a glass jar of supposedly hallucinatory Rhodendron honey, a jar of tiny silver plastic spoons, and a printed menu that I assume was designed in Canva Premium. At the end of the table was a tray that held a bowl of edibles and, both items carefully labeled in faux-Greek letters, a tiny platter of ketamine lozenges.

I’d expected the rhodendron honey, because it was mentioned in the paperless post, but the ketamine was a surprise to me. I could see it was a “prescription” for ketamine, a little opaque packet with our hosts name on it, last name first. But still. Ketamine is a horse tranquilizer. And boy is it effective. I wasn’t expecting it the way I might have expected, say, a tray of psylocybin chocolates, and I thought it was outrageously irresponsible to leave them out for people to take witout at least briefing them on the effects.

I was bent over, examining the gross display of former art student enthusiasm, the bits and bobs of drugs, when Ethan and two of his guests walked in. He was giving them a tour of the party and had brought them into the “pleasure room” as it was billed. I looked up. “Katy!” he exclaimed, surprised to find me at this exact moment, “hi!” He came over and gave me a brief side hug, turned on his heels, and left. Who needs introductions when a new lover leaves you in a room with two strangers and enough ketamine to take down Mr. Ed. I started chatting with these new women, unsure how they fit into Ethan’s life, but thrilled to have a couple of fellow cool girls to talk to. We chatted about the hallucinogenic buffet, tasted some hot honey, and after a few minutes I asked if they wanted to smoke a joint with me outside.

We stood behind one of their cars and passed two joints around, our beverages resting on the trunk. One of them joked about us looking like a coven since we were all in black. I thought to myself how cool and funny they were, and how pleased I was with myself to have met cool girls at a party full of grade-A nerds. We joked about the massive staircase, but eventually we finished the joint and ascended them once again.

I excused myself to grab a beverage, and eventually found my two new friends sitting next to each other on Ethan’s couch, kitty corner from where Ethan sat in a large easy chair. By this point I’d run into Ethan again and he’d given me a more formal hug. But I felt awkward as I sat next to the cool girls, Ethan nearest me in in chair, as his nesting partner sliced cake at the coffee table and his secondary partner sat on his lap. I was certain that other women in the room (it was virtually all women in the immediate vicinity of the living room, plus one queer guy in a skintight costume) were also sleeping with Ethan but I had no idea who, or who any of these people were. I’d deduced who his partners were based on context clues.

At one point, as I returned from the restroom, I found Ethan’s secondary partner in the seat I’d been occupying. Ethan didn’t introduce me, and I took a seat on the opposite armrest. After his secondary partner got up, I reclaimed my seat. Then as Ethan’s nesting partner, Molly, handed out cake, Ethan introduced the cool girl next to me, Anna, to her. He did not introduce me.

It was at this point that I really started to question why the fuck I was at this gathering. I’d been flattered that Ethan invited me since we were so new to each others lives, and earlier that day he had literally texted “I welcome you in my life.” But the party had not made me feel welcomed. I felt neglected, ignored, and confused. I didn’t expect hand holding, but I did expect to be treated like any other guest. Why had he welcomed me into his life if he was going to treat me like I was invisible?

I now know the answers to this are “too much ketamine” and “bad hosting skills” Ethan turned to me, his green eyes sparkling behind a mardi gras mask. “Katy, how has the party been for you?” he asked. I smiled awkwardly. Honesty was not an option, because I would have started crying, and I was not about to cry in front of someone wearing cosplay goat shoes. “Um, yeah it’s fun,” I lied. “You have cool friends.”

“No,” he said, “I mean like how is it for you?”

I gazed off towards the window. How the fuck did he think it felt for me? He’d barely greeted me and didn’t introduce me to a single soul including his nesting and primary partners. I felt like I was a prop in a scene he’d devised for his own pleasure. A sea of huge tittied women sitting around a coffee table, another woman feeding him cake, another sitting on his lap. I was borderline disgusted.

“It’s kind of weird,” I replied. “I’ve had a stressful week so I’m feeling a little fragile.” I pronounced it fra-gi-le like the dad in A Christmas Story. “If you want to lay down we have the bedroom set up as a chill area,” he offered. I blinked. “Oh, no that’s okay, I think I’m probably going to head out soon though.”

“Katy,” he said, “do what you need to take care of yourself, okay?”

“Totally!” I replied, probably too loudly. My new friends cheered me on as I rose out of the old low leather sofa, making a beeline for the drug room where my faux fur coat was tossed on the bed along with my bag. I returned to the living room to say goodbye to my new friends. “Bye guys, this was so fun! I’ll get your info from Ethan.” I turned towards the hallway where he stood waiting to bid me adieu.

“Thank you for for coming!” he said as he gave me another hug. “Thank you for having me,” I replied, determined to maintain composure but desperate to flee.

“Can I give you a kiss?” he asked, a sea of partygoers behind him. “Sure,” I said, confused as fuck. I gave him a quick kiss, said goodbye, and turned on my heel. I descended the stairs in a blur. I was so happy to be out of there.

Once in my Uber, I realized how upset I was. I cried the whole way home, my tears dripping into my KN95, regretting not taking a couple of ketamine lozenges for the road.

Ethan later apologized profusely, but I couldn’t get over what’d happened at the party, or his, in my opinion, underwhelming communication skills. I didn’t want to date, or even fuck, someone who was such, in the cold light of day, an insecure loser. I didn’t even want to engage with polyamory. It was all too much.

It’s been too long since I last wrote. I’ve been engaging in one of my other passions, which is earning enough money to live inside. I haven’t been writing or creating enough, and in honestly totally predictable fashion, I recently had a nervous breakdown, or what the kids are calling a mental health crisis. When I think about what I have personally experienced, and what we have all experienced, over the last 10 years, I’m actually surprised it took me this long to lose my shit to the extent that I have been placed off work, sent to outpatient treatment, and had my meds adjusted.

The last time I had a mental health crisis this bad was October 2019. I’d come into a sum of money, left my partner of 11 years, and threw myself headlong into my new life, unknowingly triggering a brief period of hypomania and psychotic thinking that was physically and mentally terrifying. At that time I didn’t seek out treatment beyond the therapy I was already doing. A close friend from childhood, family really, was there to catch me, but I didn’t have the skills at that time to fully access my support system. What I experienced mentally was too scary to tell my family. But I went to therapy, coped via casual sex and weed, got a job, and did an okay job righting myself.

Then covid happened. I don’t need to explain to anyone what the intervening years has involved, but what I do feel the need to articulate is what I think many of us have been feeling, consciously or not. That living in an oppressive system experiencing a pandemic, infrastructural and government collapse, and worsening climate change, largely without the community we need for even basic survival as humans, is emotionally crushing and not sustainable. We’ve all been victims of mass gaslighting at the hands of governments and the ruling class who wring the masses for every drop of profit. We are confronted with horror after horror after horror, yet are still expected to show up for a system that doesn’t show up for us.

When I think of January of this year, I genuinely can’t believe that was a short 10 months ago. The year started off so brutally, so quickly, and it has been an unrelenting series of terror and loss for Los Angeles communities.

And yet, it feels like things are shifting. In a predictable twist, Americans actually don’t love living in an oppressive police state. More and more people are waking up to the reality that the US has always been a con game - colonialist bullshit to extract resources from land and people.

For my own part, I’ve been trying to go outside more. When I walk in my neighborhood and engage with people, I feel gloriously, blessedly alive. When I look at trees I’m awed. Sometimes I feel unstoppable, a superhero of my own life. Other times I feel so sad, so soft, so permeable. I am working to love both versions of myself.

This week I have therapy and group therapy, a check in with my cancer doctor, more group therapy, and volunteering in my community. A friend is taking me to see Chris Fleming, and I’m going to a No Kings protest in my neighborhood. All is not right with the world, but I’m showing up in the ways I can, and I know you are too.

Let’s hold space for each other to grieve what we have lost and what’s been taken from us while we imagine something better. I love you.

I was surprised when I saw that this particular ping was sent by an attractive man who, yes, was 11 years my senior. But he said he liked poetry and used the word “romantic” in his profile, so I decided to match. After some easy chit chat in which he revealed he had a pine tree in his yard (a major flex in Los Angeles), he asked if I wanted to go for a walk, or get coffee or a beer. I told him I’d be down for a walk or coffee (though in truth I recently quit coffee and am now drinking matcha, but he didn’t need to know my whole life). He suggested getting a drink at a local bar in my neighborhood, which is neither coffee nor a walk, but I agreed with the caveat that I don’t drink and would be getting something nonalcoholic.

As I drove the five minutes to the bar, I found myself more nervous than usual. “What if he’s, like, really old?” I thought. “What if it’s awkward? What if we don’t have anything to talk about?” I don’t normally get nervous before first dates, but I also don’t normally go on dates with men in their fifties, so I chalked it up to the age gap. Life is an adventure, right!? I circled the block and found a parking space for the truck.

My fears were assuaged as I entered the bar and saw my date perched on a stool next to the window. He was calm, and attractive, and not elderly, so I was relieved. We instantly had easy, friendly conversation. He asked if I was sober and I explained that no, I wasn’t a recovering alcoholic, but had gone through cancer treatment a few years ago that left my body unable to process alcohol. I ordered a Liquid Death, he ordered a Rose, and we took our drinks to the patio.

The summer evening air was cool as the smell of burgers and fries wafted past us. The conversation was easy. We were both Libras from Los Angeles, former history majors, and writers. I only caught one minor red flag during the conversation when I enthusiastically chimed in while he was telling a story and he said “wait, let me finish,” in a tone I didn’t care for.

He asked me about my life and cancer treatment, was warm and empathetic, and after an hour and a half of friendly get to know you chatting, asked if I wanted to go inside to play a dumb (my word, not his) bar game where we threw a metal O-ring attached to a string at a hook on the wall. Unsurprisingly, I was bad at this, but I’d like to think adorably so.

He asked if I wanted to go for a walk and I happily agreed, because I love an evening walk and talk. The walk was a short one, and when we got to his car, he offered to drive me to mine. He asked me what my week look liked and I asked if he was off for the summer since he taught high school. All of the signs seemed to be pointing to a second date. He pulled up a couple parking spaces behind the Tacoma, and I smiled. “That was really fun, we should do it again!” I exclaimed with a smile, because joie de vivre, you know what I mean? He agreed, said a few more words I can’t remember, and opened his arms to give me a hug. I felt a modicum of trust and the hug felt good, so I lingered for a few beats, and as we were untangling, he came in for a kiss. It felt nice but not incredible, and after a few moments we pulled apart. “Thanks again,” I said, still smiling. “Sorry I touched your boob,” he replied sheepishly with a half smile. “That’s okay, it was fine. Well, not fine, but welcomed.” I hopped out of the car and cheerfully headed to the truck.

Aside from him not asking if he could touch my boob before doing so, it had been a delightful evening. I sent my friend Brandee an exuberant voice note. “That was so fun! I totally felt like we were vibing,” I said as I gave her a quick overview of the evening. I took off for home feeling buoyed. The night had gone better than expected.

After I got home and had a late dinner, I messaged him on the app. “Thanks again,” I typed, “that was fun! If you’d like to text, my number is…” I closed the app with a smile on my face, and got to my nightly ritual: one Ashwaganda capsule, one Magnesium tablet, two droppers of valerian root sleep tincture I bought years ago at an apothecary in New Jersey, and 20 minutes of Rewilding Jude, a YouTube channel about a queer man homesteading in northern Scotland that I highly recommend to anyone who enjoys a cozy ethos. Since he’d sent his first message of the day that morning at 5:55am, I imagined I’d have a text from the fifty-something in the morning, and drifted off to sleep.

I did not have a message from the fifty-something in the morning, but as I sat in my pink easy chair drinking an iced matcha (not coffee!) I saw that he’d “hearted” my message. A small but affirmative sign. I checked Instagram, then reopened the dating app, hopeful for a message. My heart sank when I saw his reply. “I had a nice time with you last night, but I didn’t feel a romantic spark. I would be open to friendship though.” As embarrassing as it is to admit, my eyes immediately welled up. What the fuck? He’d pinged me, he’d initiated the date, he’d kissed me, he’d touched my boob! As a Libra I consider myself a bit of a vibe expert, and there had definitely been vibes. “The problem definitely isn’t my boobs!” I texted to a friend as I composed myself. “But sure,” I thought, “I can be open to friendship.” We did have good convo, and I’ve been trying to make more friends in my neighborhood. Being friends isn’t the worst thing that can happen between two people.

But as I composed my reply, noting to myself that he hadn’t texted me this message, the thread suddenly collapsed. The fifty-something had left the chat. My tears returned. What? How had I so misread the situation? Why had he initiated at every point in the process only to unceremoniously disconnect? It hurt my (many) Libra feelings. Had he done this just to make me feel bad? And if so, why? I love to understand things, but I couldn’t make sense of it. I was feeling great the day before, and while the date was enjoyable, the day would have also been fun without it. Now I felt rejected and tender.

The friend I’d texted replied. “Maybe he thought he was going to get laid, and then he didn’t.” Ohh. Understanding wafted over me, and I felt a weird calm. This made sense. But why not be up front if he just wanted sex? Has GenX not gotten that memo? How could he be so careless with this cute face?

And yet, if dating in Los Angeles has taught me nothing, it has taught me to be resilient to minor (and sometimes major) heartbreak. I bounce back quick. I reopened Instagram and one of my favorite astrologers, Colin Bedell, implored me (and his 159k other followers) to get back out there after heartbreak. “Don’t be a punk ass bitch for the New Moon in Leo tomorrow,” he said into the camera (he’s from Long Island). Thank you, Colin. Heard, chef. The fifty-something a-hole is in the rearview mirror of my borrowed Toyota Tacoma, and I am cruising into Leo season, heart open.

I dip into the torture for a moment, and think about all of the traumas I’ve experienced without my dad here, my north star, the person I could always go to in crisis, who would make me feel loved and like everything would be okay. Every time a new crisis surfaces - covid, cancer, fires, fascism - I am reminded of what I have lost. The grief hits me quickly, and I am in tears.

I decide to turn left, a steep downhill that leads into an old Highland Park neighborhood. I remember what my friend Liz says about leaning on trees for support. A giant tree sits on the corner and I lean against it for relief, which is nearly instantaneous. It is so strong, so steady. I think about how long it’s been there, all it’s seen, all the people who have leaned against it for relief. I look up into the leaves and all of the angst falls away.

Steadied by the tree’s anchor, I continue down the hill. There’s an old, mysterious house on this street that I am fascinated by. It looks like it’s been here for at least 100 years.

Feeling connected to history makes me feel like a beautiful thread in a woven tapestry, instead of a tiny speck in a collective trauma. The relief of being around old things is palpable. I continue down the hill, taking pictures of the incredible variety of flora.

I think about the name Fern Edges, something I thought of last night, as I snap a photo of one. I put the name in the notes on my phone, a little treat for later.

At the bottom of the hill I turn left, down a dead end, at the top of which sits my apartment, over a hundred years old, that used to be a hotel. Something about seeing it from this angle feels magical.

I take another left, down a short dead end I’ve never explored before. A woman with a white dog emerges from one of the small houses. I look at him and see god. An old house, dilapidated, sits on the hill. I’ve never seen it before. It’s invisible from the top of the hill.

I make my way back to the through street, walking towards the Arroyo Seco Parkway, the oldest freeway west of the Mississippi. I think about how delightful it is when trees meet over a street, making a canopy. Several different trees have this effect here, deep green Magnolia leaves meeting purple flowers meeting some sort of dripping leaves effect from a tree I don’t know the name of but appreciate deeply on a spiritual level.

I stop to admire some exquisite flowers. A woman nearby pulls weeds outside her house while a little white dog flits around the yard next door. It feels peaceful in this moment, the three of us together separately. As I make my way back up the street I share a warm good morning with the woman.

I listen to the Third Eye Blind self-titled album, an incredible album for angst, one that somehow fills me with warmth despite the dark subject matter and lead singer Stephan Jenkins, a well known asshole. It has been a balm to my soul the last week or so. I wonder if my neighbors have been enjoying my a cappella offerings.

I ascend the hill once again, remembering that I am free-bleeding with 24 ounces of cold brew in my bladder, and think of my mom as I turn right into the senior center parking lot. She’s all practicalities, and is very good at it. I think of her text messages from the day before. She thinks sharing my writing publicly is unprofessional since I am also job seeking. I want to tell her she’s lucky I’ve never been 5150’d, that I’ve never followed through with my occasional, depression-induced fantasies of slicing my arm open, my flowing blood a visual representation of what aches inside me. It’s both my love for her, and my own practicality, no doubt inherited from her, that keep me from ever going down that road. I don’t have time to be 5150’d, to heal from a flesh wound. I have to pay rent. I don’t have the bandwidth for an extra trip to Kaiser. That sharing my writing publicly is a lifeline for me.

As I pass Starbucks, I share a smile with a man collecting cans. I want to give him a hug. I turn right at Jack in the Box, a sight of tumult lately. After someone was stabbed in or near it, they did a full remodel. The finished product is significantly less ugly than the previous iteration. I often marvel at the incredibly beautiful flowers they’ve planted along side the drive thru. Painters have covered the “FUCK TRUMP” graffiti that showed up over night a couple of days ago. I’m sad to see it go.

The more personal, localized graffiti on the wood paneling is still there, though. No doubt a more complicated clean up. I feel a kinship with whoever did it, as well as the bee that buzzes around some purple flowers.

I’m almost home now. The walk has helped. The torture layer is lighter now, almost imperceptible. “Motorcycle Drive By” plays in my headphones as I enter my building, and I feel renewed, at least for now.

Today I want to tell you about my new voice note series on dating in 2025. Yes, I’ll be sharing wacky and wild stories, but I also want to dig into the deeper emotional landscape we traverse when we put ourselves out there. I’ll ponder such questions as “why are pictures of men rock climbing such a boner-killer for me?” and “why would he do that?” and explore why it is so hard to forge new relationships while *gestures widely at America* all this is going on.

Enough chit chat, here’s Episode One.

Thanks for being here <3

If there’s a certain type of story, or question you have for me (personal questions and seeking advice are both welcome!), drop it in the comments.

I remind myself this as I read about the litany of horrors, think about the harm, and become overwhelmed. But then I remember they want us overwhelmed. Overwhelmed is their desired outcome. Overwhelmed, full of rage, and ready to take their supporters to task. Instead, let’s be smart about this. Replace outrage with action. You only have so many hours in the day, and while it is important to feel your feelings, dwelling in fear and anger does nothing to help and actively makes the situation worse. Instead take a tangible action - call your representatives, get involved with mutual aid, be a good community member, love your people.

The incredible community support in Los Angeles in response to the fires has made me hopeful, because groups and individuals have stepped up to fill in where the government has failed us. As a collective we have SO MANY SKILLS and all of the power. We need to remember that power, and nurture it.

Here are a few tangible things you can do right now, that take five minutes or less:

• Call your City Council member and urge them to support a rent freeze and eviction moratorium in your city, given the housing crisis and escalating climate change.

• Call your US Senators and urge them to use their constitutional authority to loudly reject the federal funding freeze.

• Follow mutual aid orgs in your area on social media to see what people in your community are already doing to care for their fellow human beings, and sign up to help.

Let’s take care of ourselves and each other. It’s the only way forward.

And yet she’s brought out the best of our city - the passion, the compassion, the organization, the skills, the heart. Local restaurants have turned into mutual aid hubs, distributing food and supplies. The performers are performing, raising money for those who lost their homes. Every conversation I have with another person feels meaningful. When faced with our mortality, frivolities fall away. When everything is fragile, everything is precious.

The biggest challenges in my life, the biggest traumas, have always, reliably, in time, led me to value my life more. To feel more me. To love myself, and those around me, more profoundly. I’ve never felt more hopeful about humanity as I have these past few years, even as we witness the worst of it. I’ve never felt more held as I have these past few weeks, as we hold each other through the nightmare.

Years ago, as I fumbled through the early days of Covid, I realized I could flip the script. The challenges that pushed me past what I ever thought I could endure could become my superpower. If I could endure it, and not let it break me, it became a strength. Oh that thing? That heartbreak, loss, grief? It made me more me. Softer, kinder, funnier, more compassionate to myself and others. More engaged, more in awe, more connected to the divine than I ever felt when my life was predictable.

Los Angeles has never been more beautiful than it has been these past couple of weeks. The horrors have brought out the best in us. We can see clearly, even with the terrible air quality, that we are all we need. The firefighters are protecting us, the chefs are cooking for us, the Excel girlies are making spreadsheets, and the queers have never looked more sparkly.

I’m writing from day 7 of the Los Angeles wildfires. I am safe (shoutout WatchDuty, every Southern Californian’s new religion). I wonder if I will ever feel really safe again. I am not okay.

It’s Tuesday, but days of the week have ceased to really mean anything.

Are you safe? Are you drinking bottled water? Are you wearing a mask? I love you.

I remind myself that my ancestors are here for me, watching over me from my altar. If I have to evacuate, I intend to pack it all in my go bag. For five days my suitcase was on the floor next to my bed, filled with essentials, ready to go if I had to flee. I ran out of my daily anti-anxiety meds last week (but have them now!). And my tiny Xanax stash, for emergencies, was not nearly enough to handle this. Though people smarter than I (my mom) tell me drugs are not the answer.

Wise people remind us that the Indigenous stewards of this land treat it with care. Prior to colonization they engaged in controlled burns. They live in collaboration with the land, not merely on it.

I look at pictures of the devastation, the sites of happy memories for myself and millions of my fellow Angelenos, burned and charred. PCH, the stunning, picturesque landscape housing Los Angeles’s most precarious bougie homes, where we take a drive down the coast when we need to get out of the city, is rubble.

Here in Highland Park, the smoke is cleared and the sky is blue. I can see birds again. They’ve survived all these fires, for millennia. People are walking around shell shocked, while my favorite coffee shop overflows with donations. I tear up as a man drops off 5 fresh Ross bags full of clothes and supplies. I wonder what the city would be like if we treated our unhoused neighbors, also displaced by circumstance, like those who just lost their homes in a fire. How warm and gooey and overflowing with love life is when we mindfully shift away from the brutality of late stage capitalism.

Every moment that we get to be with those we love in a beautiful place is a gift not to be taken for granted. People and places and animals are fleeting, but that doesn’t mean it’s not all tremendously meaningful.

PCH is charred, but eventually it won’t be. The chapparral will grow back, the land will heal, dolphins and whales will frolic in the water. The birds will chirp and the breeze will be fresh. A human or coyote or bird will gaze down at the water from the mountains, awed by its sparkle.

Calls to action:

• Support families in the historically Black neighborhood of Altadena, one of the only places Black families could purchase housing in the area after the Great Migration. This spreadsheet tracks all of the GoFundMe’s for Altadena families and organizes it by % of their goal met, so you can help those who need it most: https://docs.google.com/spreadsheets/d/1pK5omSsD4KGhjEHCVgcVw-rd4FZP9haoijEx1mSAm5c/htmlview

• Donate to Feed the Streets LA, a mutual aid org that feeds unhoused people in Los Angeles, and is also feeding first responders and evacuees during this disaster: https://www.feedthestreets.info/giving-page-1-1

• If you know people in LA, and haven’t already done so, give them a buzz and check in. It’s meant so much when friends from out of town have checked in on me during this.

1. Announce, regardless of your gender or age, that you are pregnant and have decided to keep the baby. When relatives ask follow up questions, get up and say “I can’t do this right now,” and storm off to the bathroom.

2. Ask everyone how they’re prepping for the escalating climate crisis and if they plan to acquire a gas mask for their go bag.

3. Look at the oldest person at the table and say, dead-eyed, “you’re a virgin who can’t drive.”

4. Take out your phone, clutch your chest, and gasp “Eleanor’s been apprehended by the authorities.”

5. Pull a container full of gummy worms from under the table and begin passing it around.

6. Loudly announce your position on abortion to the room, followed by “and if you have a problem with this you can see me outside.”

7. Calmly return from the bathroom wearing a clown nose and pretend nothing has changed.

8. Calmly return from the bathroom in drag.

9. Calmly return from the bathroom dressed in drag as Cher. Go around the table and make each person share their feelings about Cher in detail.

10. Tell everyone you hid $20 somewhere in the living room and then let them search as long as it takes them to figure out there is no $20.

11. Sneak sprinkles into the mashed potatoes then exclaim, “are those magic beans??”

12. Ask everyone the bear vs man question.

13. Same question but with the T-Rex from Jurassic Park as the bear.

14. Same question but with the alien from Alien as the bear.

15. Tell everyone you voted for Jill Stein.

16. Pull out a prescription bottle and ask if anyone wants to party.

17. Pass around copies of A Streetcar Named Desire and encourage everyone to do a dramatic reading.

18. Loudly exclaim that pineapple belongs on pizza.

19. Confidently announce that Clint Eastwood has come out as gay.

20. Light a cigar.

It’s not a coincidence that we’re grappling with the consequences of unrestrained greed in the form of both climate change and escalating war. Those with the most power have chosen for decades to treat earth and its inhabitants like a bottomless buffet of capitalism. Whether these titans of industry are brutalizing the earth, animals, or humans, they are proof that conscience alone does not keep some people in in line. Boundaries absolutely must be enforced, rigidly. Have you ever dated a finance bro? If so, you probably know what I’m talking about.

And so, I feel called to share what is on my heart: we need to be more effectively bullying the 1%. The orcas are doing their part. Let’s make that shit embarrassing. Oh, you have a yacht? Cool, I bet you have a small dick. That sort of thing. Hoarding wealth is the most low vibe shit I’ve ever heard. I’m just spitballing here. I bet you have great ideas too.

We all have spite in us, so let’s direct it collectively, efficiently, justly, at the small group of people making our lives hellish. Their self worth comes not from love, or the miracle of being alive, but from accumulating capital in order to wield power over others. That’s so sad and empty. Let’s harass them with the intensity of the BeyHive.

A lot of them are narcissists, and they are actually very concerned with how they are perceived. Appeal to their sense of pride. Let them know that we think they’re huge dorks and that their climate crimes are extremely unsexy boner killers.

There’s less than 3000 billionaires in the world, and they are hoarding resources that everyone else deserves to share, because that’s how life works, you absolute freaks. You don’t have to be so weird about it.

But communicating my feelings can make it hard to regulate. The other person is often left asking “why are you so upset?” (I want to gesture widely and wail, “WHY AM I SO UPSET???) I can see they don’t understand, and it’s not their fault. Now I can feel it in my body, take a step back, apologize when the moment calls for it. Acknowledge what is happening. The feelings are very real, and I want safe places for them, and I choose those places with discernment. This is trust. This is communication.

Sometimes, this trust magically appears as an energetic exchange with a stranger, an instant comfort, established with a smile, a vibe. For a moment we exist in a bubble, where it’s just the two of us. We are safe. We have each other. Yes, the sky is full of smoke. Yes, the world is on fire. I love you. You’re doing such a good job. It’s spiritual. It’s a balm. It’s god moving through us.

The other day I walked into a shop. “How’s your morning going?” the young man behind the counter asked. I couldn’t fake it. I sighed. “I’m really sad because I just watched people get bombed on my phone.” I can’t remember what he said. But he held space for me. He affirmed what I was feeling. We talked about weed, and enchilada soup, and we parted with a high five. Just like that, the pain is tolerable. I am happy to be alive.

This is my superpower. I’m not bragging. I’m just telling you what I know about myself: bad at math, good at instantly putting people at ease. Finding sparks of connection. Little pockets of love.

Of course, I don’t always feel this. When I’m depressed, I’m sometimes too fragile to open that energetic portal with a stranger. The pain feels too large to responsibly share with someone. I want to be in a womb. I want to be held.

I’m so sad. I’m so loved. It hurts so much. It’s so beautiful.

My throat catches. My voice breaks. The sunlight shines through the leaves. I’m so lucky to be here. It’s so hard to be here. I love you. I miss you. The beauty is immeasurable. I see it because of you.

Earlier I went with a friend to the P-22 Festival in Griffith Park. Somehow I missed the news that he died. Anyway, he’s dead, but enthusiasm for native wildlife is very much alive. I spoke with a lady who works for Boeing at the Santa Susana Field Lab, the site of a 1959 nuclear meltdown, that may well be the largest nuclear meltdown in the US. (For some reason NBC4 News in New York did a deep dive on this - they’ll stop at nothing to shit on LA, am I right? - and it’s fascinating. Join me in this rabbit hole.)

Anyway, the land is still radioactive but the very nice woman from Boeing explained that it’s safe (raised eyebrow emoji) and in fact her office is there, and it’s going to be used as some sort of green space in the coming years. And importantly, mountain lions use the Santa Susana pass for crossings. She gave me a very nice reusable shopping bag with pictures of P-22 on it.

Back to the nuclear meltdown - it probably led to people in the area getting cancer. I think about environmental pollutants a lot these days, as so many of us do, more so since my diagnosis with follicular lymphoma a few years ago. One of the only known causes of this type of cancer is glyphosate, aka RoundUp, an extremely commonly used herbicide. Last year, Bayer (the company that makes aspirin also makes poison), paid out $1.56 billion to four plaintiffs in Missouri, and that is just one of many cases.

As we know from many years of evidence, it’s not just pesticides that are making people sick. It’s the air. It’s the water. It’s the soil. I can tell you from personal experience, the cancer hospital is poppin’ these days. People are sick, the earth is sick, and the powers that drive industry are shitty little nihilists, happy to end life on earth for profit because their souls are empty, and no amount of money, stuff, or evidence of lives ruined will fill them. The only way they stop is if we stop them. I don’t know the best way for us to go about doing that, but I know it’s the only way we can curb the climate crisis which is very much in progress, so we better figure it out quick.

Meanwhile, I’ve devised a plan to become friends with my neighbors. I want to be in community with the people around me. I want to know them and share food with them and call them when there’s a weird noise outside. More and more, I’ve been yearning for local community, the kind of community that asks how your mom is doing, that brings you soup when they make extra, that gives you the opportunity to return these gestures of goodwill in kind. I also want this kind of community if and when there’s a climate disaster in our neck of the woods, essential services are down, and we have only each other.

My plan, like all good plans, involves baked goods. Amidst several genocides around the world, one of which is funded by our tax dollars, hurricanes that have left thousands of our countrywomen and men displaced, on the eve of this shitfuck election, the seventh consecutive election that’s been the most important of our lives, I comfort myself with soup. Soup and baking.

Making soup is soothing for me, so every week I make a new recipe and freeze the extra. Self care for present and future me. By winter time I’ll have a freezer full of different types of soup, a soup library I’m calling it, to choose from. Abundant soup. By then I’ll have a job again and I’ll be working all day and won’t want to bother with making dinner. And the soup will be there for me.

And then there’s the therapeutic baking. Mostly loaf cakes like pumpkin and apple, but the other day I fucked around and made some cookies. It comforts me deeply. I put a hunk in the freezer for future me, like a kiss on the forehead to myself. You’re doing amazing, sweetie.

And so, I’ve decided to do baked good outreach to my neighbors. Make up little gift bags filled with cookies in a seasonal ziplock and a note expressing my interest in community and my phone number. Not for the whole building - I’m not made of money - but for six of the apartments that contain friendly people I see fairly regularly. I hope that soon we’ll be exchanging containers of soup, asking how the other is doing, and hanging out when the power goes out.