Descriptions of People I Love, No. 2

This essay is apart of a larger, unfinished project in which I attempt to chronicle the people I love. When I write about people, I often do so in a faux-academic, flowery, but playful tone. I like to make bold statements and end with a string of words that haunts the reader long after it’s over. With all else staying consistent, today the haunting words come first: you killed yourself.


After we first met, we went on to share a room, to smoke a million joints, to laugh, to viciously fight, to accidentally wake each other up in the middle of the night, to play tricks, and to plot the demise of the anal girl who told us to move out of her way twice. And sometimes things were fun between us and sometimes things were weird. Either way, our interactions were always heartbreakingly human.

While my heart hurts too much to get into details, there are things I will say about you:

You were an artist; an acutely positive, exceedingly jumpy human who couldn’t read social cues but had a flaming sense of sincerity. You were overwhelmingly eccentric and unapologetically queer. While I hate to romanticize your death, lately I’ve been recklessly thinking that maybe you were too rare, too wild, too ethereal to be loved by this world.

Anyways, I don’t know where you are or if you can read this: I just want to say thank you for February 1st– thank you for looking me dead in the eye on the worst day of my life and handing me your last shot of tequila.

The artwork on this page is yours. Rest in peace.

Ghosting is Mean and Dating is Hard


In my experience, dating is extremely confusing and unpredictable.

One day a stranger strikes up conversation while you’re picking wildflowers. Later that week, the two of you are drinking beers on your first date and both laughing loudly about the time a flamingo latched onto your hair at the zoo. You are certain this is going somewhere.

Two weeks later, you’re strangers again. Your potential soulmate stopped responding to your quirky text messages and disappeared without explanation. It’s as though they never existed and the story about the flamingo was never told. While you crave an explanation for their sudden exit, you won’t get one.

Silence is precarious. On one hand, maybe the person you thought you could one day be in love with died in a freak washing machine accident. Or maybe they were cursed by a witch and lost the memory of their greatest accomplishment– finding you. However, more likely than not, your story about the flamingo wasn’t that funny and your date was further dismayed by the fact that you weren’t ready to touch their genitals.

Either way, their silence manifests itself in the form of a subtle castration. It will haunt you to not know. You’ll have to redact the statement you made to  your friends about meeting your soulmate and, furthermore, you’ll have to silently live with the embarrassing knowledge that you– a psychopath– already named the children.

You give up on love and you go back to engaging in your regular hobby– finding ways to entertain yourself while your hotter friend gets hit on continuously at the bar.

Have another drink. Your time will come.

Descriptions of People I Love, No. 1

plants.jpgThis essay is apart of a larger, unfinished project in which I attempt to chronicle the people I love. If you think this is about you, it might be.

I was friends with a crazy girl who made a lot of good points. She once said you should introduce yourself to beautiful strangers by giving them a little lick on the cheek. And if they don’t respond favorably, never look at them again. This advice is coming from a girl who smashed an avocado in the face of a politician.

She was insane and completely oblivious to it. And I loved that about her. Her perpetual state of borderline clinical insanity was refreshing. Her single-minded dedication to getting attention was cartoonish, but unintentional. She was simultaneously self-absorbed, empathetic, and sincere; she was pretty and she was powerful. She was objectively beautiful, but never cute. She, as a person, was a thing of fairy tales.

Our friendship started off as playful display of love but ended the way it always ends with her– in a goddamn firestorm.

And, still, I will always love her.

To clarify, I don’t love her in a pathetic, pining way. And I don’t love the unkind parts of her.

Who I love is the fearless girl who showed me her nipples before introducing herself with a name.

Be a Hoe

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This is essay is a short response to no one, but also to everyone. And also for me. Because I have feelings for someone who has no idea, will never have any idea, and who I feel will never feel the same way. So, I guess I’ll hoe it out until I return to normal. Yeah I’m dramatic. What’s new?

If it’s who you are, be a hoe. Do it because it’s fun.

Unlike the pretentious daylight exchanges between people who meet up soberly under the guise of getting coffee or seeing a movie, you know why you came. You came to fuck.

And fucking a virtual stranger can be great; the excitement of the chase, the kiss against the wall outside of the bar, the anticipation, the awkward moaning of a name you barely know, the pleasure, the release, the fun, the pillow-talk.

So, be a hoe this one time. If not for the pleasure, do it for the pain. Do it because you might learn the depths to which a human can love, but also the depths to which a human can hurt. Do it so you will learn that you have the ability to cause hurt– to be villainous, vindictive, petty, and evil. Understanding the nuances of your own humanness is a vital component of being a good person. Am I wrong?

Basically, do it for yourself. If you have a hoe phase, you will know both pleasure and heartbreak. Though satisfied in your physical wants, you will learn that no amount of Lululemon on your body will ever lift your ass up enough to make someone want to text you back. But rejection is a good thing for your character. For I am of the sincere opinion that rejection breeds resilience. And resilience is the marking characteristic of those invincible in spirit.

You will learn you can do hard things; you can reconcile with the fact that we are temporary, that not everyone will like you, that not everyone will want you. And, in time, heartbreak will force you to be content with yourself; your silly laugh, your weird obsession with documentaries, your collection of succubus plants and your extensive knowledge on the conspiracy theories surrounding New York’s rat problem.

At the very least, do it for the story. Do it because maybe you will end up tripping on acid in the back of Anthony Kiedis’s bus. Maybe you will fall in love with the anonymity of the darkness and never wear a color other than black again. Maybe you will make your friends laugh at brunch tomorrow. Or maybe you will write the next great American novel about the time you tried anal. Who knows.

If it feels right, be a hoe. It’s what Lana del Rey would want for you.

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Note to Myself: The Best Advise I Have Been Given (an ongoing list)

tumblr_myl0kzevsY1stirm3o1_500.gif1. If you feel lost in life, read the autobiographies of people you admire and see what they were doing at your age. (Nick T., my summer 2015 roommate who lived with me in the rugby house and is a notable lover)
2. You are not a number. You are not your GPA, your social security number, your tax bracket; You are worth so much more than that. You have a great sense of humor. (Mr. Crawford, my 11th grade economics teacher when I panicked over an exam)
3. Have courage. And be kind. (Cinderella, 2015)
4. You’re black. People will sometimes assume you are dumber, less eloquent, less than them. In situations such as these, do not feel bad for yourself. Pretend that you are better than everyone in the room. It will lessen the pain and you can continue your day. (My 77 year old father who grew up in the Jim Crow Era)
5. The 5 P’s: Preparation prevents piss poor performance (My 77 year old father, on the subject of hard work)
6. We live on a floating rock that circles a big ball of fire. It is all a magic trick. You are going to be okay. (Me, to myself on every occasion where my heart is broken or my anxiety takes over)
7. Baby girl, do not let a nigga half love you. (origins unclear, on the subject of boys and the love I deserve)
8. No does not mean “convince me”. (origins unclear, on the subject of sex)

Me, 2016.


It has been a long year. I have changed. You have changed. I hate line journalism, but I cannot consistently be so pretentious; So here is a list of things I have done this year and/or things I learned I would do if given the chance:

1. Ghost my husband
2. Start dabbling in dark magic with my best friends to raise my GPA
3. Run a 5K in Yeezys, not realizing they are not meant to be running shoes
4. Say “let’s get riggidy, riggidy wrecked, son” un-ironically
5. Assume everyone in a thick choker necklace enjoys anal
6. Quote Sex in the City to try to comfort someone after a loved one has died
7. Aggressively send Venmo reminders for someone to pay me back even when I owe that same person money
8. Google if I am an alcoholic, as I drink Merlot
9. Ask the white men at the country club who regularly refer to black people as “the coloreds” to update their racism
10. Take a stock photo of a beach from google, post it on Instagram (pretending I took it), and then pair the photo with an inspirational quote
11. Share my controversial opinions at dinner and subsequently ruin a nice dinner
12. Pray for North West
13. Pray for Kim Kardashian-West
14. Turn my back on Kanye West
15. Call up the guy who sells me my wine and ask him out on a date
16. Get really, really drunk at a bar and try to earnestly explain to the friends’ of a guy I used to casually date 2 years ago why I am still heartbroken (if you guys are reading this, your friend is still an asshole and I am still in the right and not crazy at all)
17. Fly into the eye of a hurricane for a party in Miami (Hurricane Matthew, what’s good?)
18. Try to seduce a professor with my gaze (spoiler: it just looked like I was paying attention and I ended up taking really good notes)
19. Sitting in an Uber while I painfully watch the person I was pooling with open the car door and end up being someone I lied to about being out of town that weekend
20. Have sexual fantasies about Donald Trump accidentally dying in a freak accident from auto-erotic fixation, as I eat a whole pizza in the background

Seriously, it has been a long year. Cheers to 2017.