in lieu of an explanation of my absence, i’ll just say that i’ve honestly felt like i haven’t had much to say for quite awhile. intense self-reflection and some hard-hitting really-real life events have left me pretty fucking speechless. in short, year 23 has left me hardened. ya know, it’s been a hard year.

it was mother’s day recently. i wanna talk about moms. if you have a mom, especially if you have a good mom, let her know. show her. love her. don’t ever leave her. my family’s foundation is built upon strong moms, intense women, mamas who will hold you and guide you and help you, but when backed into a corner will tear your eyeballs right outchyer pretty little head and smack some of that all-knowing mother sense into you. ultimately, fierce mamacitas who will sacrifice for you, rub your hair while you cry on their lap, and make you laugh until your belly aches… and then take care of that belly ache.

i’ve learned countless lessons from my mama, lessons that were both voiced and those that were learned just from watching and feeling and knowing. here are but a few drops in an ocean of her wisdom that i carry with me every single day.

1. question everything

2. be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle

3. don’t take no shit

oh yeah and while we’re taking advice from our mas, or if you don’t have a ma (or a good one) to get guidance from, take some from that girl-angel who told me to write again and stop bullshitting… and don’t be afraid to tell your friends to stop bullshitting when you know they are.

love and light.

i really like nighttime and wind and rain and coming-of-age tales and those three times a year that spark something real and lasting within you and feeling invincible and thinking about the apocalypse and how i’m going to find a porch to sit on and sip off a bottle of liquor and cackle life away with my funniest friends when it finally comes and pictures that capture friendships between females and sneaky smiles and silver jewelry and angry drunk arguments and hilarious sober camaraderie and sad books with bittersweet endings and sentences that are so well-put that they stop you like a brick wall, your breath caught in your throat because of all the times you’ve thought of it, you’ve never thought of it that way before.

what do you like?

We’re all so self-righteous, aren’t we? We all know what’s best for everyone else … but never for ourselves. My fingers typing this on a late afternoon in the middle of summer are no exception. Obviously I am above all of you, if I’m writing this … except when I’m lying face-down in a gutter in the rain, crying, without any shoes on, and don’t remember how I got there. Because how could I be above anyone else when I’m that fucking low? Yet, here we all are: still judging everyone (but ourselves) for their mistakes, their regrets, their misgivings. Kicking each other when we’re already down. I’ve got news for everyone, myself included (because I really do remind myself of this every single day, no lie), judging people ain’t cool. Now, there are exceptions, because the world isn’t black and white and neither is any issue, no matter how badly we might wish it so. There are grey areas to everything, I promise (just look at my eyes). I mean, if you rape someone, you’re a fucking asshole, scum-of-the-earth, piece-of-shit mother-fucker and I hate you forever and dream of cutting your penis off to sacrifice to the female goddesses who reside under the ground and in my heart. There’s just no getting around that. So yes, there are certain situations that warrant judgment and possibly ostracism. That being said, can we just  stop judging each other already? What a wonderful world it’d be if we could find the fucking good in each other and maybe even (GASP!) let each other know those good thoughts when we think them. At some point we’ve all got to stop checking behind our backs to make sure no one’s crouching there with a knife, right?

While I’m on the subject, can there also be put into effect a sort of statute of limitations on grudge-holding? Don’t get me wrong: if someone killed your dog on purpose and with malicious intent, go on ahead and hate that sick fucker forever. But, if someone slipped up a few times, stepped on your toes, said something mean to you once, hurt your feelings twice, or shit their pants on accident in front of you, GIVE THEM A BREAK AFTER AWHILE, EH?

Everyone’s got a problem with everyone else. I understand if you genuinely don’t get along with someone, fine. Just pretend they don’t exist, don’t talk to them, don’t WORRY about their life. Get over it! You don’t like them, so why do you care? I’m not asking for rainbows and smiley faces and fucking unicorns galloping in the wind while everyone gets along and sucks each other’s dicks all day. I don’t want everyone to get along, because it wouldn’t be natural and it wouldn’t be REAL. Not to mention, it will never happen. Some people just don’t click. And that’s okay. A little controversy, a little honesty, and a few wild night children can get the party started and keep things interesting, as long as there’s no bullshit drama trailing behind them.  There’s a difference between bullshit drama and honest, straight-forward REAL TALK.

Oh yeah, if you didn’t read the rest of this, at least READ THIS:

If you hear a rumor saying Person A did this to Person B and they should be publicly executed as a result, please fucking do your research, find out if its true, maybe, oh I don’t know, ASK THE SOURCE?  Before you a) judge them for it and b) go around telling other people about it.

I feel like I’m in high school all over again writing something like this. Because this is the type of thing I wrote WHILE I WAS IN HIGH SCHOOL. Scratch that, middle school. At least in high school mother-fuckers had the balls and ovaries to say shit to each other’s faces.

People aren’t good. People aren’t bad. Everyone has a reason for doing what they do. If you don’t understand it, here’s an idea … why don’t you ask them to explain? If you still don’t get it (or they tell you to fuck off because its none of your business), that’s okay, maybe it isn’t meant for you to understand. Just try to be mature, honest, humble, and REAL.

Why can’t I write like him? Why can’t I write like me? Why can’t I just put on some clothes and live my life like other people do every…single…day? Why can’t I stop thinking about that girl I saw at that show six months ago and never saw again? Why haven’t I gotten my fucking period yet? Why did I let that guy I don’t even know act the way he did toward me? And why don’t I regret it?

I’m so fucking uninspired that I’m inspired by it. But only for as long as this final sentence lasts…

So, long story short: I FEEL LIKE I’VE SURROUNDED MYSELF WITH A LOT OF AMAZING WOMEN LATELY. WHETHER OR NOT WE’RE EVEN THAT CLOSE, I FEEL A LOT OF GIRL POWER OOZING OUT OF OUR PORES AND VAGINAS ONTO EACH OTHER’S PUBIC HAIR. WHAT I’M REALLY TRYING TO SAY HERE IS: GIRLS RULE, BOYS DROOL. NA NA NA NA BOO BOO.

I’ve always admired the crazy ones. The people who live on the edge, who say what they mean and mean what they say, those gorgeous women sobbing in bathtubs filled with wine and rage, and those stylish messes of men who cut their fists breaking glass windows and girl’s hearts. Maybe my love for the dark corners of life comes from growing up surrounded by such dark people. The artists and musicians who live on the fringes of society, who live entirely in a world composed inside their heads, who live off disability because they can’t wake up in the morning and put on a suit and tie and pretend they don’t want to die. 

I was raised by a slew of the mentally ill: psychotic, schizophrenic, hardcore drug addicts and alcoholics. I love them with all my heart and soul. They are the reason I am who I am, why I do what I do, why I say what I say. They are the reason drumbeats align to the beat of my heart and guitar strings run along the length of my veins. They are the reason I stay awake for 50 hours at a time thinking I can change the world, if only I could find that one photograph I’ve been searching for my entire life. You know the one, the photo that captures the inside of what my head looks like when I’m feeling so manic I could pull out all my hair and scream. They’re the reason substance will always make me feel better. They’re the reason I’m so attracted to it in the first place. Its just not in my blood to not be the combined effort of everyone I have ever known.

This one goes out to the people who feel so on fire that they just can’t control it, it consumes them. And even if they could put it out, most days they wouldn’t want to. The ones who are who they are, without guilt, shame, apology or regret. The ones who refuse to live the sanitary, disinfected life so many have become accustomed to. The ones who admit that life is fucking messy and who aren’t afraid to get their dirty little hands even dirtier as a result of that mess. This one goes out to the people who don’t always want to be alive, who think life is utterly impossible sometimes, and who aren’t always okay . . .  and certainly don’t fucking want to hear that you think it will all work out someday.  Maybe its not going to work out. Maybe it just is what it is and we all have to live with it.

This one’s for you, the ones who keep me going, the ones who keep me burning alive.

I looked around at the life I’d formed for myself, at everyone I’d left in the dust, and at everything in between and realized I didn’t even know what kind of person I’d let myself become. Having a horde of half-assed friends and letting my long-lasting connections go to the wayside, that was never me. My entire life I knew the value of someone who’d been there through thick and thin, someone who’d seen me in my eighth-grade dorkiness and my high school bad reputations and my early twenties-total bitch phase and who still loved me despite it all. Or maybe because of it.

Suddenly the value of people who didn’t take themselves or their lives very seriously at all hit me full force. People who could laugh at their idiosyncrasies, their imperfections, and all the writing that was on the wall. People who didn’t need to prove themselves, who didn’t have their shit together but who didn’t need to have it together, people with heart and passion that had nothing to do with hairstyles or dress codes. 

Walking into a room filled with people I’d only gotten to know through passionate drunk-talk (one of my favorite things to watch while sober, by the way: passionate drunk talk) suddenly felt like home. That summer was about taking everything I had and everything I thought I knew and throwing it out the window and starting over. I’d never, up until those three unseasonably rainy months, realized the pure fucking beauty of starting over. Change really is the only constant. And there’s nothing wrong with that. Because, too often, something ends in order for something better to begin. And holy shit, suddenly it felt like I was seeing myself for the first time.

“My house burned down. Everything I had was destroyed, again. It feels better everytime.” 

right.