That was when I found myself closing out of the video, as each detail of that particular scenario built up a feeling that became more and more unbearable to the point where it felt like the only thing left to do would be to shoot the computer with a machine gun.

I couldn’t shoot the computer, because I need my computer for all kinds of important things, like looking up “bagel and lox allergy” “why naseous afgr bagel and lox” “adultonset bael allrgy” “allergic lox and bagel” and “how to irish people talk” and “is dirtbag a slur.” So I closed the computer and ate alone, in silence, sans Jon Oliver, thinking about how much I hate Zoom even without the childbirth aspect, and imagining what would it would be like to squeeze a head out of my vagina in front of a group of lawyers.

Then I changed my tampon from “Regular” to “Ultra” and wiped down the blood spot from the dinner chair. Then I read the Ernest Hemingway story, “Indian Camp” (shoutout Story Club with George Saunders) which is also about childbirth, but I wasn’t really paying attention, and I missed some crucial details about how Uncle George might have been the father, because I was so focused on the woman in the story giving birth, maybe because of the “Fetal Personhood” video, and then I wondered if my period was making me hysterical and I had lost my mind, or if everyone else had lost their minds (TBD).

I had a cold at exactly this time last year. I remember it because it was worse than this one, and because my grandma, concerned, whispered, “Do you think the cold could be caused by your nose piercing?”, a question that blew me away with its strength of imagination and originality, which are qualities my grandma deserves more credit for, in my opinion. I never get sick (knock on wood), so I do find the recurrence interesting. I guess it’s a new kind of cycle. A new signifier of the summer-fall transition. A new way of forcing me into appreciating my health before it gets cold and miserable. Or maybe I’m born with it, maybe it’s Maybelline.

I’m trying to run in the mornings before my shift at the bookstore, but it’s not ideal, because I have to wake up at 6AM. Waking up early makes me SICK. We as a society have to get over this mythologization of people who get out of bed when it’s dark out. Congrats, you got up early! Enjoy the brain fog and nausea! Enjoy inhabiting a body that is convinced it’s going to the airport!

I usually end up running after work, around 6:30pm. I get hungry but I don’t want to eat a full meal 10 minutes before I run 13 miles (I don’t play with all that stomach jostling), so I fortify my glycogen stores with Nerds Gummy Clusters, which is not the name of an STD, but rather a delicious form of candy.

The runner-up recommendation for when I want an actual snack that won’t wreck my GI tract is Famous Amos chocolate chip cookies.

Whatever chemical they use to keep them dusty and dry, like space ice cream, is compatible with my janky intestinal equipment. And they taste pretty good.

PS: Cartoons and drawings!

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Fauci should meld his personas to recover from this scandal and reduce the chasm between his diary self and public self. Maybe he could try it at the next press conference. “Omg you guys… I just met Kim Jong-Un in the green room?! And he was actually super nice in person?!” Be brave! Come on, “Just Do It”! - Nike.

I have a new job at a bookstore, which is heaven so far, not to be dramatic. It’s still a job, so the luster will wear off in a few weeks, I’m aware, but it’s scary how fun it is to be discussing books instead of other people’s feet. What a strange job that was, working in a shoe store. I’m glad I did it, and I also don’t miss it.

The only discouraging thing about the bookstore so far is discovering that I don’t know the alphabet. I have to sing it to myself while I alphabetize books. Then I have to sing it again for the second letter in the author’s last name. I plan to build a Mind Palace help myself visualize all the letters, like this:

Feeling content about the bookstore and other things is so foreign to me that my body keeps identifying it as some kind of virus, and I start to worry that I should be worried, because the contentment can get taken away from me at any time, and it probably will get taken away, because I’m BAD and everyone will find out I’m BAD. The voices will say anything to keep me on my toes. For example, I was away last week and got worried that Boyfriend didn’t have object permanence and would completely forget about me on my trip. But then I recited my mantra (Normal and Human and Good, Normal and Human and Good) and I felt better. And Boyfriend remembered me! Sooo cute.

I joined a few alumni from my college women’s XC team to run a [REDACTED] Relay in Montana. The [REDACTED] Relay is a race where you and your team of 5-10 people must cover a distance of 210 miles through the mountains (8k ft of elevation) in 3 days. There is no map of the route, only a packet of written directions we received the night before the race, in person. And because temperatures climb to 95-100 degrees in Montana summers, we started the race each day at 4AM.

I’m Redacting the race name out of respect for the race organizer, a philosophy professor at Montana State, who said he wanted to keep the race, quote, “as dirtbag as possible.” You can probably find it if you want to look. And if you want to look, congratulations, you would probably be a welcome addition to this extremely self-selecting community.

Here are a few things I learned:

• Montana is the opposite of Brooklyn

• Montana is amazing

• Montana is like a steamroller of the micro-anxieties accumulated by living in Brooklyn

• Always carry emergency reserves of cold brew because some people are simply not as addicted to coffee, which is great for them, but some of us are accustomed to drinking it in bucket quantities, and cold brew has a lot of caffeine, making it the most addictive of coffee forms, so it’s pretty imperative, actually, that I have a lot of cold brew at all times in the wilderness and beyond

• Apples are a great substitute for a foam roller (hard to bring on a plane)

• 12oz can of beer + 8k elevation + 10 miles of running + 90 degrees + sitting in a cold river = endorphin high unlike anything else = 5 beer buzz w/o any kind of hangover

NYC marathon training starts now! Or maybe tomorrow! Or next week, or the week after!

PS: ’s New Book, ‘Receipts from the Bookshop’

was kind enough to send me her new book. It’s a soothing, cozy diary of customer interactions at her bookstore in England. Katie and I both write about customers in retail spaces, and I found it interesting to see how differently we render seemingly objective encounters (customer comes in, says hi, asks questions, etc.).

PPS: Cartoons and Drawings!

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Once a day, I run around in circles, outside, like a dog. It’s good for me to be reminded of what it’s like to inhabit a body before I return to the fugue state. I don’t usually see anyone I know on my runs, but sometimes, I’ll get a text that will say, “Hey, saw you running just now!!” And guess what, I don’t think I asked! I don’t think I asked for you to force me to imagine you imagining me looking shell-shocked and frighteningly vulnerable, which IS how I look when I run, not being self-deprecating, not up for debate!

I return to the cave immediately after I run and take a shower. There is no fan in my bathroom, which is the size of a closet but somehow has 9 corners, all caked in a film of mold or grime, I’m not sure which. I shampoo and condition my hair, shave my legs, apply a hair mask. I turn off the water. It’s like walking through a rainforest, the density of humidity in there. I don’t know what black mold is, but hopefully, if I have mold, that’s not the color we have, and I’m not inhaling it.

Besides the possibility of mold, things are good. Some examples: I bought an $7 coffee yesterday with and it was honestly worth it, even life-affirming. People Magazine is doing heroic journalism covering the Taylor Travis wedding, which I’m tapping like sap out of a tree. Who else was there, who else! I’m working on a secret Big Project… one thing about me is I love a Big Project! And, finally, Patrick Radden Keefe just dropped a list of Top 5 Narrative Nonfiction Books — easiest booklist additions of my life?! Patrick Radden Keefe influencer era PLEASE! “Day in the Life of Patrick Radden Keefe,” are you kidding me, what’s the point of “progress” if we don’t have stuff like this yet!!

I haven’t read anything new in the past 2 weeks (only re-reading stuff). Here are two great links to click: Father Sergius by Tolstoy and Pastoralia by George Saunders.

PS: CARTOONS!!

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Everyone is trying to wear me down, I thought, slurping my Green smoothie, shoe store nametag still on. They’re trying to get me, they’re trying to kill me. I started to feel strong negative emotions, so I tried to breathe deeply, in and out, but I personally have found that picking at individual chin hairs is a more effective way to control myself than “deep breathing exercises.”

Even more effective was when I went home at 3pm and sent in my two weeks notice.

PUT THAT IN YOUR PIPE AND SMOKE IT! That’s what I thought when I sent the notice, but I know for a fact, as an ex-employee of said company, that no one gives a fuck, and that no one probably read more than the first sentence of the three sentence notice.

I timed quitting well, or poorly, I’m not sure — I quit the shoe store 2 days before a week-long trip with my family. As the Countess of Brooklyn, I was worried about leaving for 7 days. I was deeply afraid for my subjects, afraid that my absence from the Resplendent Borough, Renowned for its Charms and Elegance would destroy the fabric of time and the laws of physics. How will the subways run? Who will buy the Asian cabbage salad at Ideal Food Basket??? Who is going to see if any other signs over empty storefronts will appear in a window of the Blinds to Go building on 3rd Street and 4th Avenue?!!!?

Upon my return, however, I was pleased to see that Brooklyn hadn’t turned into District 12, though there were a group of men outside of my apartment jackhammering into the sidewalk in order to dig a big hole for no reason that I could discern, and the jackhammering was unpredictable and constant, which made me want to put my own skull under their jackhammer. But I’m giving them grace, because I wasn’t here, so how could they know that they can’t dig holes in these parts? How could they have known that I wouldn’t allow that kind of thing? That’s why I hold my title of Countess of Brooklyn — because I’m full of grace, and I forgive and forget.

Rapid fire book recs:

PS: Cartoons and drawings!

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As a child, I remember being worried about how I did “some things,” and how it would, apparently, effect “everything.” Because I was a total slob. I never made my bed, washed the dishes, or cleaned my room. I was constantly picking at myself — skin, feet, nails, face. I couldn’t have cared less about “geography.” I was afraid of taking pictures to document things because I “only wanted to remember what I was supposed to remember.” My mom said I “paid attention to the human details,” not the logistical ones. I had a hard time speaking to children my age unless I learned that they liked books, such as The Hunger Games and Lord of the Rings. I would literally quote that “One ring to rule them all” rhyme to “impress” people, that’s how far gone I was. I had a hard time speaking, period. I had to get coached by my parents on how to make eye contact and how it’s polite, in a society, to try to start conversations, instead of zoning out into oblivion. And I didn’t care about math at all, which I still, in a way, view as a cardinal sin that will ruin the trajectory of my life and career.

One evening, my Dad and I were watching football or something and I was telling him about a book I had read and loved called Wonder. Wonder is about a boy with a facial deformity who enrolls in a new school. Dad told me about a similar story, called The Elephant Man, which was based on a real person named Joseph Merrick, a circus freak with a facial deformity who falls in love with his nurse. The term “circus freak” was enough to make me ill, but he continued. My dad described a scene where Merrick, chased by an angry mob, yells, “I’m not an animal, I am a human being!”

I cried inconsolably for the next two hours. “Why are they mean to him?” I said. I knew why they were mean to him, though — that was what was making me cry.

I’ve been thinking about The Elephant Man a lot these days. I think there was an assumption in school that those classroom posters about eradicating vulnerability would provide the necessary wisdom for periods like your 20s when you’re constantly begging for jobs you don’t even know if you want, trying to figure out who you are as if it’s a problem with a solution. But that’s not wisdom. I’m a human being, and so is everyone else.

Ran this Speed Series 5k in Prospect Park on Wednesday. I was disappointed because I was 10 secs slower than last year, but “a win is a win,” as my high school coach would say.

I also did a 5k run called “Med Students For Choice” on Sunday. I was thinking of racing with some homemade pro-choice stickers, but it’s hard to come up with non-cliche ideas (“No uterus no opinion,” “Against abortion? Have a vasectomy,” “I don’t care what the bible says,” etc.). I could only come up with one idea… here it is:

Rapid fire book recs:

PS: cartoons!

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I’m always amazed, I Stay being amazed. Constantly. Constant Amazement. Even when I’m derealized, I’m amazed.

A “client” says, “Where did you graduate from, honey, the Blonde Bimbo School of Law?” —> Raquel’s confidence is undermined —> Raquel starts taking anti-depressant medication. It can happen to you, don’t think it can’t.

Had a race last weekend… it was pretty nuts… here’s my Strava screenshot:

I DON’T “recommend” doing what I did, but I am proud of myself for doing it. Plus I made this collage out of my race bib:

Other things I’ve been up to:

Feeling very tense, angry, alert, ashamed, and sad… you know what that means… time to draw some CARTOONS!!

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This Index.pdf is a special thank you to my paid subscribers for being here — it really means a lot to me. The index is something to scroll through on the train or in your bed or, if you’re analog and different and quirky, you can print it out and bring it to the park, whatever you need. Doesn’t matter to me how you read it, but it’s here if you want it.

Love,

Phoebe

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Boyfriend said, “It’s funny, the things you know and the things you don’t.” He said this partially because the spirit of Justin Bieber keeps getting into me and I start retching Justin Bieber quotes — “it’s not clocking to you that I’m standing on business” and “you don’t think I’m a real FUCKING guy, do you??” — to no one in particular. I don’t even realize I’m doing it sometimes. I don’t know when it started, and I don’t know how to stop it.

It’s getting chronic and starting to interfere with my work. The other day I had to repeat the phrase “I’m not a doctor” over 40 times in the course of an hour to a woman who a mean person would say was rock-brained and lobotomized for doing that to me. And every time I said “I’m not a doctor,” I said it in my head like Drake does in the song “Popstar” “by” DJ Khaled featuring Justin Bieber:

I started saying, “I’m pop star not a doctor” when my coworker asked me to do things like price socks. I also started telling her, “Picture perfect you don’t need no filter / gorgeous make ‘em drop dead you a killer” (a COMPLIMENT, btw) from the song Intentions, and then said “if you say that one more time, I’m going to hit you with an insole.” I didn’t stop, and she didn’t hit me with an insole. So what’s up with that? “SWAG SWAG SWAG ON YOU!”

I am now on Rec League, where you can recommend stuff and make collections of recommendations. This is my running collection thus far (shoutout Des Linden, , Diana Nyad, Lola from Run Lola Run, Jodie Foster in Silence of the Lambs) (also shoutout Much Madness is divinest Sense by Emily Dickinson).

As we conclude this post, please join me in prayer from the Book of Ezekiel:

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The easiest thing to read at work is The Guardian, because it’s free. I check it the way I used to check my Instagram feed — expecting it to provide me with a rush of dopamine — but it’s not designed to activate my “pleasure centers,” it’s the news, so it usually just gives me an awful, horrible feeling, especially when I see headlines about AI.

I’m not anti-AI, even though I personally have no use for it. The main source of confusion for me is why can’t we just send the AI math nerds like Sam Altman and Elon to summer robotics camp? Why don’t we let them have fun at robotics camp and make all their little robot pervert friends, and then, if they happen to come up with something actually useful, like a chatbot that can cure any disease, we use that and give them a special present, like a new Playstation. But until then, they’re at robotics camp playing Lego Star Wars and watching the Lego Batman movies. If they come up with an inappropriate idea like a busty robot girlfriend who talks like an infant, a camp counselor (a rising Sophomore at Bates College) can explain to them why that’s not a universally good thing for society, but good try!

Maybe at robotics camp, Sam and Elon could do some fun little drawing exercises to loosen up the prison that is their minds. I think they would benefit from a little illustration practice because illustration, like AI, is about getting to the truth in an efficient, painless way.

Illustration differs from AI, however, because “facts” and “realism” are actually obstacles to capturing truth. The least important part of illustration are those boring, arbitrary details, like the exact angle of a cheekbone. The most important parts are what you think are the most important parts, and the truth comes from that.

I’ve personally been trying to shake up my illustrative style by practicing realistic-face drawing in Secret Notebook. Secret Notebook is where I make work that I will never show anyone — My Eyes Only, you could say. I’m trying to draw realistic faces because I can’t do it. It’s strange because I can draw other things realistically (when I apply myself) — legs, torsos, houses, all those vases and mugs they make you draw in Observational Drawing 101, etc.

Here is an example of an oil painting attempt from a 2022 college art class:

It’s hard for me to draw faces realistically because don’t know what I look like, even in an actual picture. I don’t know what I am. When I watch movies, I wonder, Does she look like me? Does he look like me? When I read books, I wonder, Am I like this? Then I wonder, Do other people feel this way? Do other people know what they are? Do other people know what they look like? The only thing I know for sure is my age. I’m confused about everything else.

I won the Brooklyn Experience Half on Sunday (hooray) and my prize was a bagel the size of my midsection. It weighed as much as a dead fawn.

They wanted me to hold the bagel above my head for a picture, but my arms were too weak from sprinting 13.1 miles, so I said, “I can’t.”

They gave me a trash bag to put it in. I thought about using the trash bag as a blanket because I was freezing, but that would mean I would have to abandon the bagel.

I wanted to abandon the bagel, but I didn’t want the people who organized the race to cancel me — “she is such an ungrateful brat, she didn’t even want this fresh bagel carcass that we shot and killed FOR HER, she just left it in this grass field” — so I resolved to carry this bagel back to my apartment by any means necessary.

In order to get out of Prospect Park, I had to walk through the woods for 3/4 of a mile. My sweat was beginning to freeze (it was 40 degrees), and the race had no bag check, so I had no jacket or sweatshirt. Again, I wanted to use the trash bag for warmth, but my fear of getting cancelled outweighed getting hypothermia. Trembling under the weight of the bagel carcass and trying to keep my muscles from spasming in the cold, I walked through groups of spectators, who looked at me with warmth in their eyes, conveying their congrats. The disconnect between my reality — a weary traveller lugging a bagel carcass through the forest to redeem the sins of mankind — and theirs filled me with quiet rage. I’m not sure what I wanted them to do, but it wasn’t smile and wave, so I may or may not have glared back at them a little bit.

I emerged from the woods of Prospect Park onto Prospect Park West and called an Uber. When I got home, I put the bagel on the counter and started chipping away at it. I felt like I was making serious progress, but then I took the picture below and saw that I barely made a dent:

I folded it in half and put it in the freezer.

Yesterday I tried to have a chunk of it with dinner. It tasted like it had been dipped in chlorine, which is what bagels are supposed to taste like, I think… but this was like glugging hotel pool water. So I threw out both halves of the bagel. I think that’s fair.

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I feel pretty distant from runfluencers. I don’t understand how their shoes are so white, why they’re always so sleepily happy when they leave for their runs, or how they’re always drinking smoothies and eating oatmeal. I self-identify as a running anti-influencer. I am addicted to running, and would personally never try to convince people to become runners — the opposite, actually. If I have kids, I will be guiding them towards soccer or swimming or literally anything else. Because I wouldn’t trade this habit for the world, and that is NOT A GOOD THING!

I’ve shat my pants in Central Park, the trails of Minnesota, dirt trails in my hometown. I spend over and hour and a half a day running, as in bouncing around the neighborhood in a fugue state. My friends and family think I’m mentally ill (specifically obsessive-compulsive), which means I’m normal compared to other runners, who are all incredibly dorky and, probably a little cringe, especially if you’re a man, no offense. No offense! Excuse me, I don’t want to be rude, but you can’t act surprised about this! You’re literally wearing a mustache, mullet, short shorts and mono lens sunglasses! I’m with it, and I get it, but I can see how people would be off-put from the outside!

Anyway, this is all a long-winded way of saying that I had a 4M race this weekend, and also that I may be an Anti-Influencer, but I’m not anti-sponsor, and I’m very open to collaborations, especially 6 figure ones, from running brands, publications, etc., just say the word.

Other things I’ve been up to:

• Please do yourself a favor and read this Enchanted Lion post. It is so funny and cute. I formatted the post (as their “Substack Coordinator”) but the illustrations and interview responses are obviously not mine. This post will make your life at least 4% better, I’m sure of it.

• Went to the Famesick book tour at BAM last night — you must go! You must see it!

• Drew my roommate his commission (bday card for his gf) (happy birthday Caroline!):

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1. Think big.
“I like thinking big. I always have. To me it’s very simple: if you’re going to be thinking anyway, you might as well think big.”

“If you’re going to be thinking,” turn this otherwise useless hobby into a way to get your bag up. Every day, when you clock in via app on your phone, you better be manifesting the essential goal of every shoe saleswoman: TODAY is the day I sell every shoe in stock to ONE person with NO money OR FEET. This goal should be front and center, at the heart of everything you do.

2. Protect the downside and the upside will take care of itself.
“I always go into the deal anticipating the worst. If you plan for the worst–if you can live with the worst–the good will always take care of itself.”

Visualize the customer coming into the store and not walking out with a single purchase — not a single stick of chafing cream or female-specific insoles. Feeling suicidal now? Keep that. Use it. If it happens on the Sales Floor (God forbid), take a break: go to the bathroom, bang your head against the wall, screaming the lyrics to The Box by Roddy Rich. Don’t come out until you’re done with the entire song. If people are concerned, let them be concerned #LetThem.

3. Know your market.
“I like to think that I have that instinct. That’s why I don’t hire a lot of number-crunchers, and I don’t trust fancy marketing surveys. I do my own surveys and draw my own conclusions.”

The thing about people is that they aren’t stupid, but they become stupid in certain settings. Shoe stores are one of these settings. Understand that people who are looking for shoes are essentially helpless children. They were born yesterday. “BUT HOW WILL I KNOW WHICH SHOE IS BEST FOR ME???” Oh sweetie, that depends… What is your favorite color? I’ll be right back!

4. Use your leverage
“The worst thing you can possibly do in a deal is seem desperate to make it. That makes the other guy smell blood, and then you’re dead.”

If you try to upsell someone and they shoot you down with an eyebrow raised like they’re Sherlock Holmes himself and they just uncovered your master plan to coerce them into paying an extra $60, resist the urge to hit them with an expression that conveys all the apathy you’ve collected over your 24 years of being alive. Resist the urge to say, “Frankly, I couldn’t give less of a fuck whether or not you buy this insole, Janice. Frankly, I get paid 50 cents above minimum wage to guide you toward this useless product, so I know you think you served and ate by dodging this Opportunity, as corporate calls it, but really you have done absolutely nothing to me. I have a lot of edges called Perhaps and almost nothing you can call Certainty, Mary Oliver said that. Okay? You can never touch what’s deep inside of me, which is my soul, shining and light and free and a little bit desperate, okay, but that’s what souls are, a little bit desperate, okay? Would you like a bag for an extra 5 cents?”

5. Enhance your location
”First of all, you don’t necessarily need the best location. What you need is the best deal.”

Point people towards location, meaning temperature in the athletic shoe store world. Temperature is important to bring up because that is the single most important way to sell $25 single pairs of socks. Socks come in different thicknesses (low to max thickness), which is completely overwhelming and brain breaking to customers, who, when presented with this spectrum, immediately ask, “WHAT THICKNESS SHOULD I GET?” My actual answer is, “Only you can answer that question, and also, I need you to understand that it is impossible for me to care less about this particular subject.” But what I say is, “Thin socks for hot weather, thick socks for cold weather.”

6. Fight back.
“In most cases I’m very easy to get along with. I’m very good to people who are good to me. But when people treat me badly or unfairly or try to take advantage of me, my general attitude, all my life, has been to fight back very hard.”

I tend to fight back by Not doing things — not laughing at their corny jokes, not smiling at their “harmless” flirting, not reacting to their torturous nitpicking, summoning a cold, dissociative calm within my body. They fight back by leaving “Reviews” which are sent to the company inbox, that, when negative, say things like, "felt like i was in a military recruiting center” “sales woman was to serious” “did not smile once.” These reviews are read by the “top” administrators, who then asks my manager to “check in” with me or my coworkers. These check-ins are fun because this is when we affirm our belief that if you’re leaving a NEGATIVE REVIEW of a stranger (a GIRL!?!) who helped you for 45 minutes, who made sure you walked out with a solid purchase, who makes minimum wage, you are psychotic and going straight to hell. Good try, though!

7. Have fun.
“Money was never a big motivation for me, except as a way to keep score. The real excitement is playing the game.”

Exactly.

Other things I’ve Been Up to:

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I know I sound like an astrology freak, but I’m absolutely sure that the patterns exist. I’m sure the way I’m sure of other things, like 2+2 being 4 and Tom Cruise having a living, bubbling insanity inside of him the way other people have microbes and bacteria and whatnot. I wish Tom Cruise would come into the shoe store. If all these patterns are God’s famously Mysterious Way of getting Tom Cruise to come to the shoe store, then that’s fine with me.

I love voicey orphan/orphan-adjacent novels. Here is a list I made for fun:

Drew my feet last night. What the hell, sure!!

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Some stickers I made for the movies that came out this year:

One Battle After Another

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It was warm for a few days this week, which made being alive much easier. However, today it is 42 degrees, which is disgusting and unjustifiable. Zohran Mamdani: Get it together. Time to start acting on those campaign promises. Unless you’re just another politician? Interesting.

I got some good news last week and figured I should celebrate, because otherwise, what’s the point of good news? So I bought some Honey Bunches of Oats and had two bowls while rewatching Portrait of a Lady on Fire. Happiness looks different on everyone. RFK, for example, might have celebrated with “meats and ferments” while watching videos of pigs getting slaughtered, volume up and everything. That’s what it’s all about: life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.

I keep having this intrusive thought of “Should I have skipped college?” These kinds of regrets are not actually regrets, but a symptom of a brain that likes to practice revisionist history by gaslighting me into thinking that the past is a dangerous, bad place. After 3 seconds of “sitting with” the thought, I remember that college is where I developed all of my “skills” and where I made my best friends and is directly related to most of the successes I’ve had in life, pre and post-graduation… so I am relieved that the conclusion to that thought experiment is “No, I should not have skipped college.”

I did make this list of things that became more/less common since graduation below:

Less Common Since Graduation:
Instagram
Anxiety/fear
Drama
House parties
Big social activities (hikes, concerts, sports games, etc.)

Stagnant (bless)
Creative work
Running

More Common Since Graduation:
SUBSTACK!!
Anger
Peace
Leisure
”Getting drinks”

Quick book recs!!

Honorable mention: Some Girls Want Out, an essay by Hilary Mantel about the life of saint Gemma, but really about why the female body feels like a prison for some women. Published in the London Review of Books. I can’t stop thinking about it.

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Here are my systems, which function individually but are interconnected to form an embodied organism (Me):

I had an idea (on a run) to create a running section for this newsletter, so that’s what this is. I also have this old Substack post about being a distance runner, if you’re interested.

Other things I’ve been up to:
- Preparing to babysit my parents’ dog on Friday

- Illustrated ’s newsletter!

- Finished my 2025-2026 journal :’)

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One thing about me is I love personality tests. I love being told what I am. Oscar Wilde said, “To define is to limit.” To that I say, “What’s wrong with limits?” To that I say, “Put me in a box. Lock me in there. Don’t let me out even if I beg. Tell me in a quiet, calm voice what’s going on and what’s going to happen. Give me a bottle of warm milk with scotch in it so I stop whining and fall asleep.”

Sometimes my desire for certainty gets me into trouble. Like this weekend, Boyfriend and I were poking around a Buddhist temple that had scroll fortunes for $1. I love fortunes for the same reason I love personality quizzes, so I begged him to please please buy me a fortune! Please! How else am I supposed to know what’s going to happen? How else am I supposed to know what I’m like and what I deserve? PLEASE! How else am I supposed to know who I am? PLEASE!

Obviously I made him buy himself one too so that we could compare. And before you start with all the feminist thinkpieces, yes, HE bought me the fortunes, but it was $2, and he’s lucky I wasn’t asking for a yacht or a Mercedes, am I right ladies? Just kidding, if he bought me either of those things, I would die from shame. Anyway, here is his fortune:

And this is mine:

Boyfriend started laughing and apologizing and saying, “See, this is why I don’t like this kind of stuff, I’m sorry, here, do you want it?” And I said that’s not how fortunes work, and okay sure, this situation is “not his fault,” however, at the same time, it is his fault, and something that he is going to have to sit with for the rest of the week and maybe the rest of his life, so how “excellent” can one’s probability of success be, with that kind of burden weighing on you?

It’s times like these where I think of the Mary Oliver poem, Angels, where she says, “I have a lot of edges called Perhaps and almost nothing you can call Certainty.” Okay, but what’s “almost” nothing? What sort of probability is that?

Other things I’ve been up to:

- I am now in charge of Enchanted Lion Press’ Substack. Enchanted Lion Press is a children’s book publisher based in Brooklyn. I will be posting and formatting for them twice a month — give it a follow if you are interested in children’s books, illustration, and/or ME!

- Dug up 3 poems I wrote for Creative Writing class in college:

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So without further ado, here is my “Style Guide,” or “Phoebe’s Quarterly (PQ),” whichever floats your boat.

PS: 2 new stickers for paid subscribers

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DISCLAIMER: this list is NOT “things that solve my problem of not having an idea.” They rarely “give” me ideas. At best, they shake something loose and offer a way to wake up what has been dormant. At worst, their brilliance makes me feel like I’m not qualified to be here and should probably retire.

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New York State Law requires you to take a 30 minute break, which you take around 1pm in Bagel Hole across the street. The guy at the counter says, “How’s business?” You say, “Good.” You sit in Bagel Hole and write stuff down in your diary with one hand while holding a sandwich in the other. The TV news is always on in Bagel Hole, and this is how you learn, via lagging subtitles and Ken Burn style zoom-ins on the Nike logo, that the Trump administration is suing Nike for discrimination against white people. Go back back to work. Do whatever bullshit as needed (DWBAN) until you clock out of ADP.

Time for the the gym! Hey, it’s that one guy who is always in here when you’re in here. Funny how that happens. It’s like period syncing. Hopefully he doesn’t notice me, but I guess it’s okay if he does. It’s just weird to be noticed in this place. Run 7 miles on treadmill listening to Baby Keem, The Rolling Stones, Charli XCX, Bob Dylan, whatever Spotify thinks is fitting for the occasion. “Lift” afterwards. Feel pathetic for intruding on the men’s safe space (lifting area of gym), and for being so small and weak!!!

Return to locker room, put Mielle mint rosemary oil on scalp to prevent dandruff (it has to sit on your head for half an hour before you shower). Walk home to apartment, nearly freeze to death in the process (@ Zohran. Do better). Take shower at home. Change into pajamas. Go on phone. Ideally you’re reading or something but sometimes you go on your phone, and that’s just how it is, like it or not. Eat dinner while reading or on phone.

Wait for Boyfriend to come over so that you can entertain him with crazy, head-spinning stories about work and subject him to lectures about why he should watch The Piano Teacher one of these days, or Babygirl, because they’re kind of similar, due to centering a woman who lives only to please other people while clearly dying on the inside, which is sort of relatable for me (without the suicidal ideation, perhaps) and don’t you want to know what I find relatable, because aren’t I your favorite subject to think and wonder about? Aren’t I interesting?

Other things I’ve been up to:

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For this edition of From the Archive, I’ve pulled some lists from my Notes App. They’re not that weird (except for a few, maybe), but I feel like there is something perverse/titillating about reading something that was never meant to be seen, because they are “true” / “real” in a different, frightening way. So I hope you enjoy them. Have a good weekend!

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