This year, Joshua Tree has been my go to destination when I need space. Earlier this year, I saw Say She She at Pappy and Harriet’s and made a weekend out of it which kickstarted my Joshua Tree era. I’ve learned a couple things along the way and have some recommendations which I share with you below!

As much as I appreciate the outdoors, I’m not much of a camper so I typically book an Airbnb. When booking, consider the weather. If you’re visiting during the summer months you will want access to a pool and plenty of indoor activities. The Joshua Tree Inn has pool passes for non-guests. If visiting during the cooler months, I recommend finding a spot with a hot tub for star gazing in the evening. Bring a book to read poolside. (I’m currently reading The Poetics of Space by Gaston Bachelard…I’ve been thinking a lot about boxes and cabinets as of late.

In terms of attractions, I recommend the World Famous Crochet Museum. It’s painted bright green and you can’t miss it. PS: don’t let your friends know it’s “just” a tiny photo processing booth filled to the brim with crochet items kept cool by a solitary window AC unit. Enjoy subverting your friends’ expectations of what a museum “should be.” Then, take a stroll through the Art Queen where you can pick up a crochet souvenir or screenprinted clothing item at Shari Elf’s shop or wander into the Beauty Bubble: a beauty salon, museum and gift shop featuring hair and beauty antiques, memorabilia and ephemera.

If it’s not too hot (and honestly even if it is) I also recommend The Noah Purifoy Outdoor Museum of Assemblage Art. The museum is free to the general public and the sculptures (made entirely of junked materials) will transport you to another planet.

If you’re in need of caffeine midday, consider visiting Mas o Menos where you and your friends can have a coffee or a cocktail and take pictures using their photo booth. It’s a little trendy and there is a photo op happening at every turn but maybe treat this as an opportunity to dress up? Yes, you’re gonna sweat your makeup off but do it anyway?

Final notes:

• Pack eye drops.

• Make sure someone packs real food in addition to snacks.

• If you happen to be in town on a Tuesday check out karaoke at the Tiny Pony Tavern.

• Beware of mixing alcohol and heartbreak, you will be dehydrated and the alcohol will hit harder.

Almost two years ago I had just filed my taxes (late, as per usual) and as an unmarried woman with no kids and a new-to-me cushy job I got hit with an offensive amount of tax due. I needed write offs. At the time I was renting a room in a cute house with no parking, shitty insulation, and no central AC. I thought about looking for a place with better amenities but a one bedroom anywhere fun or exciting in LA would have been at least $2,500 and the thought of giving money away to a landlord in perpetuity pissed me off. I refused to go another year in these conditions.

As the daughter of immigrant parents who to this day have not figured out their financial situation, I have always wanted to own a home. To me, home ownership represented stability, security, and safety. (To be clear there is no inheritance, no will, trust or safety net waiting for me.) At the risk of sounding like a sellout and a greedy capitalist, I needed to know what it felt like to own something.

In November 2024 right around Thanksgiving I closed on a condo in the LA suburbs. Yes, I thought about moving somewhere with a more reasonable cost of living but who wants to be in the middle of bumfuck nowhere? (Me, sometimes but not always.) I can get downtown in 30 minutes and have easy access to the metro rail. Built in 1982, the condo had good energy and lots of light but needed some sprucing up. Since moving in I’ve put in new floors, new windows and a new kitchen. I’ve (very) slowly added personal touches and put way too much thought into making furniture purchases. (I’m particularly fond of my metallic pink TV stand courtesy of mustard.) I have a long list of projects I want to tackle but alas money doesn’t grow on trees and I still have some drywall that needs patching following my last plumbing emergency.

I have my local dive bar, coffee shop and as of a few months ago a new Korean tofu soup spot around the corner. I don’t think I have buyer’s remorse but would I do it again? I sat down and made a list of pros and cons which I share with you now:

The Cons:

• I had to make some compromises. I wanted a house with a yard but in order to stay close to the city, I had to go with a condo.

• Maintenance is expensive and stressful. I’ve had to deal with plumbing emergencies which have collectively cost me $15,000 - $20,000. I now have nightmares about water being where it shouldn’t be. My psychiatrist recently doubled my Prozac dosage.

• It is really hard to find good contractors, plumbers, handymen. You constantly have people coming in and out of your house giving you crazy estimates for work.

• I have basically no equity and am paying hella interest every month. Paying off a mortgage is slow progress.

The Pros:

• For my 2025 taxes, I was able to write off the interest paid on my mortgage. I got a tax refund for the first time in years.

• Parking and central AC! (To be fair I could have had this as a renter.)

• Clout? There is pride in knowing I was able to purchase a home on my own.

In short, even though the cons heavily outweigh the pros on paper, yes, I would do it again. Even though the tax break in no way makes up for the money pit that is home maintenance, I personally needed the sense of security that home ownership has provided me. If we look at Maslow’s hierarchy of needs I feel like home ownership (i.e. property) has helped me develop a sense of personal security which has allowed me to devote more mental space and energy towards achieving love and belonging. The feeling of fight or flight is not as prevalent these days.

If I could do it again I would have loved not having to do everything on my own but such is the plight of a hyper-independent trigger happy bitch. I play with the idea of selling every time something starts leaking but I’ve found a good plumber which helps. I like to joke that if I ever buy property again, I hope there’s a savvy good-with-his-hands husband in the picture.

Disclaimer: Unless you have some financial trauma you’re trying to work through, buying property in 2026 might not be worth it. Especially not in the LA area.

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The Muses in Greek mythology are nine sister goddesses believed to be the divine source of all inspiration for artists, poets and historians. These days a muse is usually a person or place (not necessarily a god or goddess). For example, there was a time when the American Southwest was my muse. I photographed it, wrote about it and spent time in it. These days I struggle with the heat. I’ve also become more afraid: afraid at the lack of infrastructure, afraid of strangers, afraid of that level of solitude.

A muse in human form is more than just a pretty face. They are oftentimes difficult to understand, difficult to know, and as an artist it can be both exciting and frustrating to become lost in them. We will exhaust every medium trying to get to know them, trying to understand them. Are they happy? Are they sad? What do they look like when they’re in love? What are they like after a long day?

It can be a tricky dynamic to navigate. As a muse, your likeness ends up everywhere but all the artist credit goes to the musician, photographer, designer, etc. For example, Julia Fox has served as inspiration for Josh Safdie and Charlie XCX but her own creative sensibilities receive a lot less praise. It can seem a bit exploitative. This is not to say that I think the muse is without agency. They can walk away and/or in this age of social media leverage the medium to build themselves up as cultural icons.

Generally it seems that having a muse is a rare thing nowadays. This could be in part due to the emotionally complex nature of the relationship between muse and artist. There are friends and romantic partners that require our time and attention. There is jealousy. There is the inescapable passing of time and there is physical distance.

Or maybe the idea of a muse is a dated concept with a nasty power dynamic that we shouldn’t even aspire to. Maybe the artist collective needs a resurgence. Yes, as artists we need inspiration but we also need accountability. Someone or a group of someones to keep us from spiraling into mediocrity/boredom.

I’ve been dreading the plane ride and the airport but mostly I’ve been dreading having to be “on” for the next three days. I’ll need to smile more and complain less. I’ll have to unlock the version of me that cares to build relationships with co-workers, the version of me that drinks wine instead of cheap cocktails and the version of me that doesn’t need a nap every two hours.

Since I know this will take every ounce of energy I possess, I have packed a few tools to prepare myself mentally, physically and emotionally. I packed my favorite outfits, my favorite scents and hair products, too many moisturizers, my eye drops, and platform sneakers that help me feel very cool.

I’m lucky that I work remotely. Benefits include no commuting in LA traffic, getting to wake up late most mornings and not having to navigate co-worker personalities outside of Zoom and Slack. My co-workers and I are very different. They’re all married, most of them have kids and give off very crunchy granola vibes. Sometimes I’m afraid we’re becoming more and more alike but I quickly dismiss the thought.

Upon arrival at Denver International Airport two of my co-workers and I find each other. We’ve been told to carpool to our destination in Boulder, Colorado. Our driver is an older Latina with high heels and a Tapatio bottle in the passenger seat. Luckily, what I lack in account balances and investments I make up for in personality. In Spanish, our driver gives me her life story and some advice. My co-workers chit chat in the back seat. Tip for surviving 72 hours with co-workers: make friends with the locals aka find your people.

We arrive at our lodgings and I put on my most ingratiating persona. My goal is to contribute very little in terms of actual work for the next 72 hours. We get our keys and schlep up to our cabins.

This is a good time to mention that LA sits 300-ish feet above sea level. Boulder, on the other hand, sits 5,430 feet above sea level. To alleviate any altitude sickness, I packed plenty of Ibuprofen for the inevitable headaches (altitude and co-worker related), took lots of naps and capped myself at three drinks per meal.

Tuesday morning’s agenda featured a hike. I put on my most brave face, leggings (not lululemon) and sneakers (not Hoka). As we trudged up this “moderate” trail I felt violent. The air felt thin and I felt like the most out of shape person on the team. It was humiliating. I didn’t know whether to kill myself or the co-worker who planned this. A muder-suicide in Boulder, Colorado would have been crazy so I took deep breaths and cracked some jokes until it became socially acceptable to turn around. As someone who has worked hard to afford some level of comfort, I don’t like to suffer when I travel. Masochists, all of them.

During the next couple days there was a power yoga session which gave me a headache, too much colonoscopy talk, and some very strange foods. I made it a point to end my nights early and extract myself if I felt myself getting too loose. Pro tip: You don’t need to go to every event on the agenda, you’ll end up saturating the market. In the solitude of my cabin, I caught up on a couple movies and slept.

On the plane ride home, suitcase packed to the brim with Patagonia / “Patagucci” company swag, I watched Bong Joon Ho’s Mickey 17 (2025). Set in the future, the plot follows a man, played by Robert Pattinson, who joins a space colony voyage as an “Expendable”, a disposable worker who is cloned every time he dies. Mickey 17 and Mickey 18 become illegal multiples when Mickey 18 is printed before Mickey 17 dies. The idea of multiples sat with me in the days following the retreat. I think we all have multiples inside of us, different versions of ourselves which we present at different times depending on the situation. At the end of the movie, Mickey 18 sacrifices himself to save the space colony and I wonder if at times we also sacrifice or disappear pieces of ourselves in pursuit of survival.

A few more tips:

• Sleep!

• Burbank over LAX every time.

• Take lots of showers! No one likes a smelly co-worker.

• Uber XL if carpooling with co-workers.

People in power love an ingénue. They love her because she presents with limited agency thus making her seemingly easy to control. They love to fetishize her youth and her innocence, they believe her simple minded. She poses no apparent threat to the establishment, she isn’t taken seriously and jokes are often at her expense. Think Rachel Wiesz’s Evelyn at the beginning of The Mummy (2001). In the beginning, Evelyn is a clumsy doe eyed librarian who despite her intelligence isn’t taken very seriously by her boss or her peers.

It’s not all bad for the ingénue! In fact, leaning into the ingénue persona can come in handy. Pretending to be stupid, shy, innocent or confused puts people at ease and they let slip information they usually wouldn’t. Their innermost thoughts, their intentions and their prejudices. This information can help the ingénue navigate her surroundings strategically.

At some point, however, a girl inevitably ages out of the ingénue persona. She learns how to wield her beauty or perhaps develops too many opinions. At this point in her journey, there are a variety of personas for her to choose from. I’m interested in the femme fatale. In literature and in art, the femme fatale has abilities verging on the supernatural. She is able to enchant, entice and hypnotize her audience.

Think KATSEYE’s Manon Bannerman. For months now I haven’t been able to scroll through social media without Manon edits showing up on my feed. Manon Bannerman has innate stage presence and a femme fatale tattoo on her torso. The internet has speculated that a power struggle between Manon and her label led to her ill-timed hiatus.

Another example is Euphoria’s Maddy Perez played by real life femme fatale Alexa Demie. Maddy’s character is bold, confident, dark and mysterious. This is complemented by her vampiric looks, sultry femininity and siren like gaze. My friend described her as: Hitchcock heroine meets 60s Mexican movie star.

Unfortunately the femme fatale constantly finds herself at odds with society’s expectations of a lady. She’s often deemed too sexy, too alluring, too tempting. Her influence makes her intimidating and dangerous. She’s also not without character flaws. She is petulant, self righteous and impulsive.

How then should we mere mortals proceed? Do we go full time femme fatale? Or do we cling to the ingénue persona in hopes of survival? The ingénue survives because she poses no real threat to power but is that any way to live? The femme fatale has agency but is constantly fending off those who feel threatened by her. I think in any case a girl is always in some type of danger. Personally, I can feel myself aging out of the ingénue persona so I’ve made it my goal this year to work on embracing the femme fatale.

To aid me in my pursuit of the femme fatale persona, I put together a Hot Girl Bingo card. My bingo card includes items like getting a tattoo, purging my closet, dyeing my hair, jewelry and new bras. What’s on your hot girl bingo card? Are you going femme fatale or ingénue this year?

It’s Friday and the Santa Ana winds have officially arrived. The Santa Ana winds are an annual ritual where high-pressure air rushes to the California coast. The resulting dry, windy conditions create a breeding ground for destructive wildfires (and behavior).

There was a couple arguing at the store last week. Some guys got into it at the local dive. And people are saying the most unhinged shit. I left the house yesterday to get a haircut. Everything is too hot and only showers help.

The Santa Ana winds have an almost supernatural ability of ensnaring those in its path, we become erratic and melancholic as the winds wake us in the middle of the night. The windows rattle and the aging wood in the wall grumbles. Every sound has you on edge. You step outside and the dry wind attacks every orifice and bit of exposed skin. It takes everything, leaving your skin dry and your mouth parched. Your hair, your clothes…they become something not your own. They flit around you, mocking your attempts at controlling the situation.

This year, the arrival of the Santa Ana winds coincided with the beginning of Pisces season meaning we feel particularly unmoored at the moment. As the winds travel across the Southwest, they come into contact with so much to the point where they too are changed. They arrive in Southern California carrying impressions of everything they come into contact with in the basins and deserts to the east. When the winds encounter susceptible individuals we are suddenly hit with memories and emotions not our own.

All day I’ve been thinking about my friend in Tucson. No fully formed thought materializes but she is there. An impression. At night, in my dreams, I am always searching for something. Frantic. In my house, the previous owner left wind chimes hanging in the patio and I never took them down. In my mind they alert me when the winds are coming. In my mind they are protecting the house. I’ve been dreaming about her lately, the previous owner. I keep dreaming that she left something here, a book or a person. The wind chimes are falling apart and I’m scared.

On quieter nights, I sleep with the window open and a cool breeze makes its way into my room. I hear frogs and the sound of my fan going. Other times I hear the cats and they sound like wailing children. I lose track of where I am until I eventually fall asleep. A bright light wakes me in the morning.

Most of the time I fail at creating because, frankly, I balk at structure. To make myself feel better I tell myself that I at least experience the world in a creative way. This is probably why I ended up driving solo down an unlit, unpaved road a couple weeks ago. I was convinced I was the idiot that gets murdered at the beginning of a horror movie.

I had booked an Airbnb in Joshua Tree, a house in town so I could be near people in case of an emergency. I wore a scarf a-la Thelma and Louise, listened to U2’s Joshua Tree album, and stopped at a cute cafe with a photobooth and Wet Leg playing on the radio. The fantasy was in full effect.

Upon arriving, however, I realized I had been catfished. The listing had presented a girly retreat space. In reality, the house looked like it had been flipped by a couple of DIY bros. I could hear a leak somewhere in the house. They hadn’t bothered with LVP. The light switches were hard to find and once found the lighting was out of a hospital horror movie. I could hear the neighbors arguing outside.

Me a couple years ago would have made it work. 32-year old me got a refund and booked the nicest house I could find on short notice. An hour later I was driving down an unlit, unpaved road trying to avoid potholes. My plan had been foiled and I felt out of control/was starting to feel unhinged. Perfect.

This new house looked like something out of a Marfa architecture book. Floor to ceiling windows. Recessed lighting. And not a single soul around. I explored every room, settled in and binged the new season of Bridgerton. When I started falling asleep, I went around locking the doors and rolling down the blinds. My imagination kicked in and the thought that I was being watched flitted through my mind. I went to bed.

Hours later, the sound of a door woke me. My heart was racing. I realized my bedroom door didn’t have a lock. I should have invested in a carry permit. I focused on trying to listen. I might have heard noises again, I can’t remember. Eventually, I heard nothing. I went into the kitchen and grabbed the biggest knife I could find and set it on my night stand. I eventually fell back asleep.

The next morning my friend made it to the house, she had been a day behind me. I told her what had happened and we convinced ourselves it was probably an animal rummaging outside near the door. Or maybe someone was staying in the airstream a few yards out and…?

We had intended a creative retreat of sorts, I sketched the landscape and we saw a band in Pioneertown. Not the prolifically creative weekend we intended but nevertheless an interruption in an otherwise soul crushing routine. Basic bitch allegations avoided, for one more week at least.

PS: Fun fact: I’m always down to blow money on a creative retreat.

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I’ve never been one to start the year with a dry January so this was a first for me. Initially I didn’t want to miss out on the regularly scheduled going outs so I committed to showing up and doing mocktail research. I found out that mocktails aren’t very in demand so bartenders will whip something up and it’s an experiment for you and them. I also learned that it’s easier to ask about mocktails when it’s not as busy and noise levels are lower (which is actually kind of obvious). If it’s busy or loud and you just want to hold something in your hand ask for a Topo Chico. It turns out Topo Chico is not usually included on happy hour specials so be prepared to shell out a few extra bucks than usual.

Once people learn that you’re not drinking they all of a sudden want to buy you shots and drink with you. One weekend I found myself rawdogging karaoke night at the bar. My voice was shaky and I was overstimulated as fuck. My friend noticed that I was a little more irritable because I was noticing everything. At some point a group of people came in wearing too much perfume and I called it a night.

I did get bored after a while so I started scheduling sober activities. I made it my mission to leave my little corner of the suburbs. One weekend I saw the Noah Davis exhibit at the Hammer Museum which left me feeling very mediocre in comparison. This usually happens when I experience good art. Good art reminds me that it’s important to find new language to express ourselves in order to avoid sounding like a broken record (easier said than done).

In order to entertain myself, when people asked why I wasn’t drinking I started a rumour that I was pregnant and had not yet decided if I was keeping the baby (for the plot and the lore). I had a lot of fun with this joke and would highly recommend it for entertainment value.

Ps: I failed at staying dry for the whole month. I only lasted two weeks.

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Growing up I mostly listened to music in Spanish: family parties here and there, the CDs my mom would buy at the swap meet, my dad playing Santana out of his white Ford Mustang on the weekends. In order to make ends meet my parents used to rent rooms out in our house which meant characters constantly came in and out of our lives. There was the cop, the single mom and her rebellious daughter, and the talkative 30-something year old who couldn’t keep a job. One of these characters gave my parents a CD (reason unknown) and it was the first time I heard Bruce Springsteen. The CD was a collection of songs by different artists and the song was “Streets of Philadelphia.” The song struck me as dramatic but it introduced a new place to my imagination.

One quasi-tradition my family had growing up was going to the city’s firework show every 4th of July. We would camp out in the July heat and track the sun, counting down for the show to start. Around 9PM the stadium lights would go out and Bruce Springsteen’s “Born in the USA” would blast from the sound system. I still get pleasant chills remembering the fireworks eventually drowning out the music. This song and firework ritual in a community of immigrants created a fantasy we all indulged in. One day a year, for a moment, we felt like we were a part of something. This year many cities in SoCal cancelled their 4th of July events due to the raids.

Back to “I’m on Fire.” Similar to “Born in the USA,” the music is deceptive. Buried in catchy verses, there is a feeling of loss and unfulfilled desires. In this moment when so many are experiencing loss due to state violence, I can almost feel the unfulfilled desires building/ accumulating. They are invisible but they are palpable and heavy.

Earlier this week I woke up, my nape sweating, phantom pains in my body. I wanted to believe it’s just the summer heat’s arrival but a part of me knows it’s more than that. The world is on fire, this is the song of the summer.

Hey, little girl, is your daddy home?

Did he go away and leave you all alone?

I got a bad desire

Oh, oh, oh, I'm on fire

…

At night, I wake up with the sheets soakin' wet

And a freight train runnin' through the middle of my head

Only you can cool my desire

Oh, oh, oh, I'm on fire

Oh, oh, oh, I'm on fire

Oh, oh, oh, I'm on fire

According to Merriam Webster a crush (n.) is defined as an intense and usually passing infatuation. By definition then a crush is passing and thus not a serious thing but think back to your last infatuation and tell me you wouldn’t beat a bitch’s ass for them?

As a straight woman (Pisces), I’m constantly crushing on guys and I hate the power dynamic this creates between me and “guy.” Any type of interaction with “guy” has the potential to make or break my day. I turn into a circus performer, looking to him for attention and validation. Worst of all, I start to hate women that hang around him at which point I start to dislike myself (and him) for making me feel this way.

Suppose your friend has a crush on a guy at the bar, you know this because she’s talked about it and called “dibs” the moment she laid eyes on him. It's been months and the crush is still just that: no one’s made a move, feelings remain seemingly unrequited and your friend continues to dissect every interaction. Now let’s say this guy is cute and you’ve kept yourself from getting to know him out of some allegiance to girl code. Does girl code have an expiration date? Terms and conditions? Does girl code even apply to crushes?

I tried sleuthing the internet for an answer, I tried asking friends and eventually polled my IG followers. Google had a lot to say about girl code as it relates to boyfriends and exes but very little to say about crushes. Conversations with friends turned into nit-picking hypothetical scenarios. And so it came down to the IG poll (Yes/No).

Ultimately 62% voted that YES: girl code does apply to crushes. I was part of the 38% that voted NO because what is a crush even? Are we in elementary school calling dibs on playground equipment? No! This is real life/we are grown women and if I’m too chicken shit to pursue someone then I need to accept the possibility that someone I know (potentially one of my girl friends) may pursue him and either get rejected or become involved with him at which point he is off limits.

Infatuations should be fun, low stakes and entertaining. In the future, if I see someone and I think they’re beautiful/hot/cool I want to just say so. A crush is a lack of information so approach your interest and get to know them (he might be taken for all you know) before you start envisioning the proposal, the wedding and summers on the lake with your future kids.

Do you think girl code should apply to crushes? What’s the longest you’ve had a crush on someone?

In the last few months, the world has witnessed the terror that the current administration has unleashed on communities of color (particularly in California) and I’ve yet to hear a peep from my mostly white and/or middle class co-workers. Where is the concern? Where is the offering of the corporate card for any legal emergencies? Where is the fucking outrage?

I was talking to my therapist last week, telling her how infuriating it’s been to be in meetings with co-workers, when I deduced that my co-workers seem to care more about loss of property (to natural disasters) than they do about concentration camps being erected in Florida. It’s honestly not surprising and I should know better than to expect anything beyond a land acknowledgement.

If you are also struggling to go about business as usual at your corporate 9-5, the following advice is for you.

• Stop working so hard. The world is ending. Stop chasing that promotion. Another $70/check will not save you from the gestapo.

• Stop paying your federal income tax (Federal W/H). Stop funding the war machine. If you are a W2 employee, go exempt on your federal income tax. Put that money away in a savings account because the IRS may demand payment in a few years. (If they still exist in a few years.)

• Get a remote job if you can, you will want to minimize the amount of time you spend around people who will never understand your plight. Chances are, given the state of the world, you will struggle to get out of bed in the morning and there’s nothing like a Zoom filter to hide your messy hair and unwashed skin.

• Chances are your co-workers are not evil, there is just no meshing of worlds (they are ignorant) and you shouldn’t waste your energy educating them.

• Never get specific about what’s bothering you, don’t talk about the children being separated from their mothers/kidnappings orchestrated by the state. They don’t care and this isn’t “polite conversation.”

• Start alluding to and documenting some struggles with your mental health. Get a therapist. This may come in handy when you file for unemployment, disability or FMLA.

• Don’t tell your co-workers about your blog and avoid making friends at work. You never know who they voted for. (If they voted at all.)

• Acknowledge that you are a ridiculously privileged piece of shit. You have the luxury of doing all of the above. There are people risking being kidnapped by the state when they show up to work in the fields/at your favorite restaurant/at the local car wash because they can’t afford to miss work.

“Giving to CHIRLA is crucial to protect families because it provides essential legal services and advocacy that safeguard immigrant rights, ensuring that vulnerable communities have a voice and a support system.” Donate here.

Think you the shit, bitch?

You not even the fart (grrah)

In an era where delusions are encouraged and “delulu” has its own page on the Merriam Webster site, main character syndrome is rampant. While main character syndrome is not a psychiatric diagnosis, main character behavior needs to be checked. Too many people are walking around with delusions of grandeur (myself included). I still haven’t decided if this is a main character hate piece or my attempt at explaining/justifying my behavior.

According to Cleveland Clinic symptoms of main character syndrome include: Increased motivation, improved confidence, inflated sense of self or self-delusions, having an altered perception of reality, ignoring or unknowingly avoiding consequences of their actions, disassociation, attention-seeking behaviors, exhibiting dramatic behavior, lack of empathy, romanticizing one’s problems, dressing or acting in a way that’s not authentic, experiencing periods of cognitive dissonance and experiencing urges to reinvent yourself. Ps: I identify with most of these symptoms. I’ve lost track of how many times I’ve reinvented myself.

I love to fantasize that I am the most interesting, entertaining person in a room. I love to make up stories about myself and those around me. I like giving them fake background stories because sometimes it’s easier and less disappointing than getting to know the real person. Sorry if this makes me morally bankrupt! Hear me out, who wants to live in reality in our current day and age?! Reality bites and not in a Winona Ryder movie kind of way. I’d much rather my altered perception of reality because at least then it’s beautiful. At least then things make sense and at least then I can pretend I have some control over the world around me.

I was recently out when I heard the opening line to “Deceptacon” by Le Tigre. A girl I had never seen before proceeded to belt out my karaoke song. I gasped, bitch! Didn’t she know this was my song? How could she pick a song without learning the bar lore first? Who did she think she was? I felt like I had been booted off my own show, like my narrative had been co-opted. A few days later I convinced myself that this was a good reminder that I am not the main character and I too am subject to the comings and goings of others.

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I had fallen into a routine. Sit. Bill hours. Sit. Meet with clients. Sit. Go to the same dive bar. Sit. Order the same cheap drink from the same bartenders. Sit. Gin and tonic, please, thank you. I can feel my body becoming stiff. Routine is like gravity, you don’t really feel it until you’re trying to get up and out; next thing you know you’re on the ground.

When I start to feel this way I tell my boss I’ll be gone for a few weeks, pack a bag with my comfiest/baggiest clothes and start listening to music with the sole intention of being fully in my feelings. Amyl and the Sniffers is my latest musical obsession. I imagine me and the girls drunk at the airport as I dash to catch a flight out of Burbank. “Me and the Girls,” “Got You,” and “Knifey” capture how I’ve been feeling lately: I’m a strong girl and most of the time I know for a fact I can do anything I set my mind to. The rest of the time I feel trapped like nothing will ever be enough and I’m a little (a lot) angry/sad about it.

We land in Phoenix and drive down to Tucson. There are vague plans to check on the saguaros, lounge by the pool, eat and sleep. I’m trying to fix the stiffness that’s developed in my body and so I happily walk around in the Tucson heat. We go to the saguaros and end up a little sunburned, I lounge by the pool in last year’s swimsuit, and catch a movie marathon in bed. We eat a lot of good food and I try to exist without caring how I’m being perceived. The excitement I felt dashing through the airport comes and goes. Every now and again my mind drifts and I start to check on work or wonder what my latest crush is up to.

Note: On day 4 we visit the Ignite Sign Art Museum near downtown Tuscon. They have a Signmaker IV machine from the 80s which they allow visitors to play with (see below).

There’s this idea that a trip into the desert can remedy inner conflict but I come home and I can’t help but feel physically and emotionally restless: sitting in a desk chair, tracking calendars and fake deadlines, performing the version of me which I believe people understand best. I want so badly to unleash a-la Amy Taylor; I think I’ll need to try again later.

Recently, I was reeling and debriefing with a friend about a guy I met and how his words and his behavior had caught me off guard. I told her about how he had taken hold of my hands at the bar and leveled me with a directness I’d not experienced before. Let me see your hands…you have pretty hands he said tracing my fingers. Now let me see yours, I replied, taking a hold of his wrists and making a show of examining his ring finger. You have pretty eyes, he says, making another attempt at flattery. He traces my left brow and my reaction is to create distance. When I tell him he’s being too direct, too aggressive he responds by saying, You just don’t like that you can’t manipulate me. My friend gasps and asks, DID YOU GET BABYGIRL’D?

We are of course referencing Nicole Kidman’s erotic thriller wherein Kidman’s tech CEO character explores her submissive fantasies with a cocky, playful and unsettling (at times) intern played by Harris Dickinson. We cackle and move on to another topic but I’ve been ruminating on this question since.

There was something similar about our characters (me/Kidman and man/Dickinson). I’m in tech, repressed, and used to being in a position of power. He was an EMT, blunt, and had an almost refreshing lack of refinement. Was he right? Did a part of me realize that I couldn’t manipulate (control) him? Did that make me uncomfortable? Perhaps. Kidman’s character navigates board members and investors, I navigate consultants and clients. I’ve become an expert at manipulating conversations and situations in order to distract and course correct. It’s comfortable and it feels safe but it can also be exhausting. Sometimes I do just want to be told what to do but the idea of giving up control and trusting someone else to look out for my best interests is uncomfortable.

Man and I start talking astrological signs. He’s an Aries and I’m a Pisces so I let him know it will never work. I’ll get too attached, I’m too sentimental. He’ll overpower and overwhelm me. You’re scared I’ll fuck you and make you soft, he says. I look at him, daring him to say that again. I say nothing, we exchange numbers and I tell him to have a good night. The bartender checks on me. It’s fine, I’m fine, I tell him and laugh.

In the days that followed I realized his directness was refreshing because as a woman (of color) I’m so used to having to work to meet unspoken expectations and perform this perfectly composed and unflappable character. I’m so used to having to guess what people are thinking in order to prepare myself for a million hypothetical scenarios (the way any self made woman will in order to defend what she’s worked to achieve). I realize I started to believe him, thinking my fears were unfounded or irrational. But then I remember. I’m not scared of becoming soft, in fact, it’s what I wish I could become. I just wish I felt safe becoming soft, completely unhinged. I didn’t get babygirl’d, I got disrespected. But a girl can dream.

Witnessing the birth of the internet and the slow death of print taught me early on the importance of information and the power in withholding it. I remember when information was hard to find. I remember going to the public library and browsing encyclopedias for a school report. I remember looking for the meaning of a word in the pages of a physical dictionary. I remember my dad’s Thomas Guide maps. I remember when Tiger Beat was the source for all things teen idol. Lore was difficult back then. Nowadays, thanks to the internet, everybody has lore. Everyone has a backstory.

Internet and media personalities have done an excellent job commodifying (i.e. monetizing) their skewed understanding of lore. They’ve done this by tapping into the very human desire to access those worlds we don’t belong to. For example, I’m not a nepo baby turned Brentwood mommy or an internet waif turned coffee entrepreneur/carpet host. Our lifestyles differ greatly and it’s human to become curious. However, the internet and the algorithm mean this curiosity infiltrates my day to day and I end up knowing too much about these otherwise dime a dozen personalities with too much access to wealth and means by which to proliferate information. They’re fucking everywhere, there is an oversaturation of information which by definition contradicts the idea of lore.

Do not confuse access with lore. Are these people really that interesting or are we as viewers and consumers just desperate to access these worlds we are not a part of? Do these people actually have lore? Are they worth knowing? Or do they just have access to time and money?

For those of us still interested in lore, how can we go about creating it? Actual lore, I mean. I propose that in an age where there is an over supply of information, we try to be mysterious. It’s tempting to yap about our poor decision making, the losers we continue to date, and the messy situations we end up in. But if everyone knows everything about you and nothing is a secret then you don’t actually have lore. Create scarcity to create demand. People will keep you around just to figure you out. The minute people think they’ve figured you out, they lose interest and you lose your power.

Try the following lines next time someone is digging for information:

How do you like your job?

– It’s a job.

How do you like living in ________?

– It’s a place, people live here.

Maybe I’m just feeling like a jealous ass bitch today. Maybe I’m being extra critical. Maybe I really believe what I’m saying. You’ll never know. I’ll never tell you directly. I’ll let you draw your own conclusion, read between the lines.

At the beginning of the year I told myself that 30/31 would be fun and in a lot of ways it has been. I’ve danced and I’ve laughed more than I have in years, explored new hobbies including improv and karaoke, saved some money, did some traveling, and took many a trip into the desert. I’ve sang, drank and performed with friends and strangers alike, found a great therapist and developed more crushes than even a Pisces should. There’s been a lot of joy; however, it seems the universe demands an exchange. 

One day my life will feel full and I’ll be in awe of my own capacity to experience it all. Sooner or later, however, the lethargy hits and the regret and anxiety creep in. Why did I spend so much money? I should be saving for a house. Will I ever be able to show my face at that bar again? Am I so unapproachable? Am I going to die alone? (Mejor sola que mal acompañada but still!)

Part of me is convinced this rollercoaster of emotions is inevitable. How could I not end up depressed after a weekend full of dancing, karaoke, friends and flirting when I have to go back to answering emails at work? Another part of me likes the I’m-Mexican explanation (which I came up with on my own). I oscillate between extremes? Of course I do, I’m Mexican. We (Mexicans) have a capacity to experience extreme emotions and of course our attempts to regulate ourselves are going to fail spectacularly. Another part of me, the logical part of me, thinks maybe Newton’s Law applies here and it’s true that for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. In all likelihood however, my therapist probably has the better explanation. I believe her when she observes that I’ve survived on low levels of satisfaction/fulfillment for years and so when I hit my body with dopamine it struggles to regulate itself. 

So now what? Do I practice gratitude? Meditate some more? Work on getting to know myself? Yes, I could and I definitely might. Chances are I’m also going to go shopping and yap with friends over tofu soup. In case of emergency, I’ll schedule a barre class for a hit of dopamine. I’ll visit my friend in the desert, we’ll go on a hike, find a swimming hole then doze on the surrounding boulders. The bar keeps getting raised so I might as well chill. I’ll go to the bar in the suburbs because I’m a suburban girl through and through and sometimes the city sucks. And, yea, maybe I will take a break from dating and the apps. Cuffing season, not this year.

I signed up for improv classes because my therapist said this would be a good way for me to get to know myself. My family, of course, thinks it’s very out of character. I’m personally optimistic. As a chronic over thinker/over processor this should be good exposure to living in real time. Secretly, I’m also hoping I can make cool, new friends. 

I’ve been so preoccupied with who I might meet that I didn’t think to look into what actually goes down during a three hour long improv class. One exercise, rant and rave, involves three performers who alternate monologuing about things they love or hate. I proceed to rave about football and semi-rant about camp but have continued to think about this prompt throughout the week. 

I hate it when my gel manicure fails a day later. I hate the housing market because a cute 3/2 with a yard feels impossible. Supply is so low (if you want to be anywhere relevant) that I’m considering moving out of state. I hate myself when I am too shy to approach a stranger I find interesting or beautiful. I hate that I need a drink or two in my system to let loose. I hate how tired I am lately. I hate that my (former) favorite karaoke bar has been co-opted by hoards of unbearable LA transplants.

What do I love? Or even like? I love my car. Not because it’s a particularly nice car but it does have a decent sound system, gets ok mileage and lends me complete control over my immediate surroundings. I like driving around at night, music blasting imagining that I’m tethered to no thing and no one. No earthly desires or responsibilities. I’m in my car singing along to Milli Vanilli or whatever song is trending on TikTok that week and I no longer care that I have work tomorrow. 

I love and hate that I’m unwilling to settle for whatever normie existence most everyone else seems ok with. Somedays I want the house with the yard, the husband, the fancy job and well to do acquaintances. Other days I would give it all up if it meant I could be selfish. On those days I still want the house but I want it all to myself, the extra room doubles as my art studio. I don’t have to share and I don’t have to perform for anyone. I can sprawl on the couch all day if I feel like it. In this universe, I go out into the world only when I need inspiration and when I do I am a force to be reckoned with. There’s no one waiting for me at home and in that moment it’s liberating, so much so that I fall apart. I go home and I work on putting myself back together.

Saturday around dinner time I arrived at a mezcal tasting on the corner of San Fernando Rd and Division St. I quickly learn that most of the mezcaleros are from Oaxaca but there is a handful from Durango which is where most of my family still lives. 

There’s a band setting up and they start playing norteñas. The lead singer is a man who looks white until he opens his mouth. “No me rajo, me enojo," he says in between songs. I like to think I’m stubborn in the same way: I don’t give up, I get mad. There’s an accordion involved and I remember how my parents tried putting me in accordion lessons as a kid. I wish I had stuck with it because I really think I could have pulled it off as an adult. I start to wonder what else could have been. Had I seen more of my family in Mexico growing up I’m sure someone would have taught me how to dance to these songs. Instead I’m standing here unsure about how to move; I do my best to follow the people around me. There is an awkwardness to my being Latina that I often struggle with. The combination of music and mezcal has the melancholy kicking in so I wander outside to get some air. 

The sun is starting to set and there’s a group of people dressed in goat chaps, suit jackets, scarves and devil masks assembling. An audience is starting to gather and I ask someone “what’s happening?” “Es la danza de los diablos,” the dance of the devils, she says. Another group of musicians, this time with drums and trombones, starts playing and the devils begin to dance. They dance for hours. 

I see the devils dancing and I start to remember a man I met in Chinatown a few months ago. The truth is I’ve been looking for him since I got here. I remember he liked mezcal and I’m convinced he’s around. The problem is I’ve forgotten his face. I remember dancing with him and thinking that he was handsome and charismatic. I remember him saying girls from Durango are always a little odd and I remember us hitting it off over a mutual appreciation of Ramón Ayala. 

Growing up, my mom would tell us stories about the devil and Mexico. One story was about a girl who danced with the devil. The story goes that this girl liked to go out dancing (very frowned upon apparently). One night she meets a handsome man and they’re dancing together when the lights go out. Confusion and chaos ensue. The woman feels a burning sensation on her back. The lights come on, she looks down and the man she’s been dancing with has goat hooves for legs. He escapes and the townspeople unsuccessfully search for him the rest of the night. 

My friend drives us to a bar later that night and I feel out of sorts. I can’t get into the music and I’m done drinking so I give up and head out. When I make it to bed Sunday morning I can’t sleep. I’m thinking about places I’ve never been and people I’ve never met. Everything that could have been may yet come to pass. The thought comforts me and I sleep the day away. 

It’s Sunday night somewhere in the LA suburbs and I’m wrapping up my birthday week at a karaoke bar down the street from my sister’s house. I initially ignore the person sitting next to me but I get curious and eventually ask him what he’s going to sing. We end up talking about everything, different songs bringing up different stories. Our conversation is as playful as it is sad and I like it. He’s handsome, angsty and an engineer and I realize I’m way too into him way too quickly. (I’m just a Pisces!) I sign up to sing “Just a Girl” by No Doubt and tell myself I’ll use the song to scare him away and remind myself why men are trash. It doesn’t work and I end up sad and belligerent for days afterward. Oh I’ve had it up to here, Gwen (Stefani) keeps repeating throughout the song. She’s right, being a girl is exhausting. 

I’m just a girl and a cute guy’s attention will have me riding high for days. That said, my therapist says I need to work on internal validation for endorphins. Or get on antidepressants. I’m just a girl, cute and funny at best. Taciturn, mean and impulsive at worst. I’m just a girl and I’ve got issues with authority but love feigning incompetence to get what I want. I’m just a girl and I like to get my brows and my nails done every couple weeks, I swear I’m not superficial. I’m just a girl and I like to act like I don’t know what I’m doing but actually I pulled the scam of the century when I turned an art degree into a chill six figure job with a 401k. I may quit or get fired at any moment but still. I’m just a girl and I haven’t paid my student loans in months (I refuse to do so out of spite). I’m just a girl and sometimes I get so afraid because it feels like I’m holding myself back from living the life I want.

I’ve tried books, therapy and astrology to try and understand why my emotions often overwhelm me. Is it because I’m a water sign? Am I too sensitive? Is it because I’m the eldest daughter in a Mexican family? Perhaps it’s a combination of all these things. You see, I grew up and continue to be hyper aware of other people’s emotions. I think in doing so I just never learned how to handle my own. And so when my emotions come out at the bar or in the street I’m not equipped to handle them. I picture my emotions and they are feral, confused, capricious things that embarrass me more often than not. But I love them too. I believe Octavio Paz when he says, “we (Mexicans) are familiar with delirium, with songs and shouts…each time we try to express ourselves we have to break with ourselves.”

I realize I’m overthinking and over intellectualizing things. I’ll blame the heat again, it got too hot in LA this week which created too much time for laying in bed, thinking and ruminating. Sometimes you just need a white girl from the OC to tell you it’s ok, you’re just a girl. 

This used to be an easy question during what I call my early karaoke days. Today, however, my go-to song depends on whether I showed up by myself or who I’m with. “The bar itself is also a factor because you can get away with different songs in different places,” I say out loud. 

The last time I went out to karaoke it was at a bar on Sunset Blvd in Echo Park. There is a birthday crowd in addition to the regulars. The crowd is on the rowdy side but my out of town friend is with me and we have a great table in the back of the bar from which to observe. After a couple drinks I queue myself up to perform “If It Makes You Happy” by Sheryl Crow. “If It Makes You Happy” does well with Spanish-speaking crowds without actually being a Spanish song. I think it’s because we’re sad people and we don’t know why. I eventually get up there and there’s a man with a boy-ish look about him sitting in my line of sight. We keep making eye contact during the song and so I keep asking him why the hell he looks so sad. I give the mic back to the DJ and head back to my seat. My friend and I get out of there while the drunk guy we’ve been trying to avoid is distracted. 

Other days I show up to a bar by myself and need a chill song that won’t draw too much attention and I’ll do something like “Badfish” by Sublime. A bit niche and not one of their more popular songs, if someone likes the song and we start chatting they’ve already passed a sort of test. There’s also those rare and magical days when someone does a Jenni Rivera song at which point I’ll queue up “Mis Sentimientos” and/or “Tragos Amargos.”

Sometimes I’ll show up with my friend who is part of a clown troop and performs with a sketch team. If it’s busy we take advantage of the excellent people watching and perform a song or two without deviating too far from the vibe that’s already been established by others. If we get to the bar and it’s a slow night, I’ll shamelessly perform too many songs including “Paper Bag” by Fiona Apple. 

If I’m at a 24 hour dive bar on Las Vegas Blvd I’ll do “I’m Just a Girl” or “Hollaback Girl” by No Doubt. Around 3AM I might do “I Wanna be Sedated” by the Ramones. By the end of the night I’m in no fit state to be performing. I know this but one of the regulars is doing “Unholy” by Sam Smith and my friend and I are hyping her up. We are singing along at the top of our lungs, holding on to each other near the stage.

Other times it’s been a while and you showed up in the outfit you’ve been wearing all day, your makeup is starting to run, your hair reflects the day’s activities and you wish you’d had sneakers in your car or had taken the nail tech up on the pedicure. Despite this you feel called to scream into a microphone because no one around you is listening. You circle the block a couple times before parking. You stuff your ID, a credit card and a $5 bill into the pocket of your too-baggy jeans and try to walk up with confidence. Thankfully, security at the door recognizes you despite you being away the last month or two. You may have shown up by yourself and you may be questioning whether any of your “friends” are even friends but guess what you’re a regular and security knows your name. Someone knows your face and wonders where you’ve been. You sing an angry song, “Bad Reputation” by Joan Jett. A girl who kicked her date out of the bar sits next to you and together you sing along to Chappell Roan’s “Pink Pony Club.”