True Love in Paradise

I loved him. I really fucking loved him, didn’t I? And now what. I’ve got nothing to show for all that love I poured into him, which makes me feel like a fool because that means I gave my love away for free. For nothing in return. There’s no house, no kids, no ring, no Facebook albums filled with sunny vacations or even some small trinket I can put on my nightstand and look at when I want to think of him. He gave me nothing but STDs. Yet I still loved him.

I’d like to think that I’m a hopeless romantic, and there’s something whimsical and quixotic about the way that I loved him. I have to think that, because if I don’t think that, I’ll be left with the stark reality of: did I get played? Yeah, I got played. I’m a player in the game, and really, now I’m a loser. I loved a man who never truly loved me back, and here I am, sitting pretty, all done up in lip liner and rhinestones, with my perfectly fat ass that I got after months and months of working out at the gym, and I also have my nice designer hand bag that I bought for myself because I work hard and got a promotion and a raise and I can afford to do nice things for myself like buy $16 cocktails and designer hand bags. Yet I’m the fucking loser.

This doesn’t feel fair. All of this – for what? So he could dick around and make me feel inadequate, even though where’s his designer hand bag, and he doesn’t even have a car, and he could definitely use some time at the gym. I realize now that I am too good to be made to feel like I will never be good enough, especially by a man who is lesser than me. The fucking nerve.

The Importance of Female Acknowledgement

I have always had a great appreciation for women who compliment me on the street. In this era where we decry catcalling as a crime against femininity, I would like to take the time to examine the other side of the equation: women talking to each other on the street.

When I was younger, it always disarmed me when anyone talked to me on the street. However, I noticed that when women were talking to me – usually offering some sort of nice compliment about my outfit – it wasn’t the same as when the men did it. When the men did it, it was a power move, a way to leer at me, a sexual invitation. (Sometimes just a greeting, and usually harmless, but that’s a different conversation altogether.) With the women, it was a nod of solidarity. Or, at least, that’s how I have come to interpret it. It was a way for one woman to say to another, “I see you.” And by responding, I am saying, “I see you, too.”

Women talking to each other in the street is a way for us to not be invisible in public. When our visibility in public is generally reduced to a sexualized object of power play, affirming each others’ presence in public space is an act of radicalism. It’s a way to say, “You belong here. You are safe here. I see you. I got you.”

This is something that I have seen men do for each other in myriad different ways. Most commonly, I think of being asked out to dinner by a male companion. The male server or bartender approaches us, and my conversation is briefly interrupted by this strange but universal rapport that men seem to have with each other, this natural ease, this automatic gliding into familiarity and conversation. I am cut out for a moment, and then it’s back to the task at hand.

If we examine the small ways that men signal the security of their status to each other, this is a prime example. Despite the fact that the bartender or server is by the very nature of this dynamic here to serve us, the nod of familiarity between server and served repositions the woman in the conversation as an outsider. On the other hand, if the server were a woman, then she would be dismissed by the man (who, of course, is in charge of steering this dining experience to his liking) and the equivalent of the female nod of acknowledgement doesn’t even happen.

Enough of that. Women, we need to acknowledge each other in public spaces. As our servers, our cashiers, our bus drivers, our bank tellers, whatever it is. We need to put in the extra work to say hello to each other. We need to talk to each other. Ideally, by creating this basic undercurrent of acknowledgement we can grow on top of that a solid sense of being on the same team. We can get to know each other, and in knowing each other, we can know each others’ strengths and problems.

I would like to think that in an ideal world, I can walk into a restaurant, build rapport with my server, and have a functional relationship, woman to woman. (Let’s throw this “man to man” aphorism in the trash, ladies.) Too often, women are harassed on the job, and sometimes that harassment is in plain sight. So many times, I have seen female workers harassed by not only bosses but also patrons. By actively engaging with each other, we can support and protect each other. In the worst case scenario, we can use this trust to call out someone we see who is abusing female workers. On a day to day level, we should be able to ask the female workers in our society, “Is your boss treating you fair? Did you get that raise you asked for? Were you considered for the promotion?”

We can build on the basics of female acknowledgement so that we can further acknowledge: are we being respected in our public facing careers?

It’s just an idea for a first step, a small thing that we can do to further undermine a system that none of us believe in.

Sheltered American

I am sitting in this house with my face pressed against the window, wondering how the fuck do I get out when the door is right there. I can hear them killing people in the next room over, but I cannot see it, so I ask myself: can I live with the sound of people dying? I can drown it out if I sing to myself, right? I can pretend that it is not happening.

I look out the window and I long to be out there, but I have also heard so many tales about how scary it is out there, that everyone out there hates me already, and I do not want to be there. People are hammering on the door, begging to get in, but little do they know that there is murder in this house. I just so happen to be lucky enough to be in this sunny, clean room where everything is pretty okay, except that I can hear people getting murdered in the next room over.

What is it like out there. Can I survive in here. When they are done killing people in the next room over, will they come for me next? Will they cut off my feet if they know that I am dreaming of running away?

Will someone out there save me? Or will they burn this entire house down with me in it. If they stop the killing in the next room over, will they drag me out and keep me warm? Or will I be tried as guilty for sitting here in silence with the sound of murder in my ears.

Oh, how I wish they would stop killing people in the next room over. It sounds atrocious. I wonder – am I the one who has to go in there and stop it? I look around at everyone else in the room – if none of them are doing anything about it, why am I the one who should start? I am not the strongest or the swiftest among us. If these people who are much wiser and quick than I – if they do nothing to stop it, maybe I should sit here, too, rocking back and forth and quietly humming. If I burst into that room and demand they stop, they will probably just kill me, too.

Why is the world like this, and why I am here in it, like this, right now? This is such a beautiful room to sit in, but I am still dying to get out.

The Devil Within Me

I am still gripped by this old fucker, his hands wrapped tightly around my soul. For a few months there I thought he had left me, that I had found a quiet escape route and managed to slink away unharmed. I was wrong. The demon wrath was just quietly sleeping while I wrestled in the darkness with the demon depression.

The demon wrath is back.

I have never found a good way to deal with him. He screams chaos inside my head at all hours of the night, nudges me out of bed in the morning with the good idea to get out there and hurt somebody, he tucks me into bed at night with sweet dreams of destruction. He guides me, tenderly, lovingly, through my waking days, and I can feel myself crumbling beneath him. This constant war against him, which I guess is just a war against myself. Entropy is increasing, and I am withering away on the sidelines.

Wake up in the morning. Everything is a wreck. Everything feels like a wreck. I try to justify myself to myself, but these excuses are anemic and faltering beneath the heat of my own breath.

What happens to me. I have always wondered this. Where am I supposed to go. What am I supposed to do. In earlier times, I would be burned at the stake. Drawn and quartered. Locked up and tortured. But I live in a world of these so called freedoms, and if there’s anything I can do, it’s hold onto these false freedoms that somehow still imprison me. I would like to be truly free with me and my demons, but I’m pretty sure no one else wants that for me. I don’t even know what that would look like.

Instead, I only know what it looks like to be here, halfway into this half free world, and failing. Waiting patiently for my demise. Watching as the building I am sitting in starts falling to the ground. I know that no one wants me here. I know that no one can stand to be around me.

Where I am supposed to go. I am here, now, and somehow that’s not good enough. I know I am supposed to be quiet, to be contained, but the wildness within me has outstripped even my own best intentions.

I came here years ago because this was supposed to be the place that I could be free: Oakland. Oh, and I was madly in love with Oakland, too. We were perfect together, me in my rein of terror and Oakland without it’s pretensions or guise of laws or social decorum. We were wonderful.

But Oakland has changed, and I remain the same. I hate to admit that I have fallen out of love with my best friend. That a city is what defined me and my sense of safety and belonging. All of a sudden I am too crazy for Oakland. Oakland no longer wants me. And I am lost to wonder the desert, just me and my demons, looking constantly for a home but still never being able to leave.

No, I cannot admit to myself quite yet that things are not working out with me and Oakland. And it’s not Oakland, it’s me.

Where the fuck am I supposed to go. I have tried being someone else for so long, and that has never worked. This is it. This just is who I am now.

Am I supposed to die? I wonder that at times. It seems like the world wants to tacitly tell me yes, even though, let’s be honest, I tried that one time and it didn’t work.

I am a spiritual expatriate from the Kingdom of Heaven in Oakland, California. I am a monster with no home. The beast on my back is crushing me, but not enough to kill me. I am a human with no comfort and no peace. It is just me and my devil, cruising through this planet, looking for a place that cannot be destroyed by the chaos we bring.

Devil’s Three Way

So, in a reprisal of a theme from Fuck Feast, I am here to tell you the story of me propositioning something that is not a dictionary definition of a devil’s three way, but it gets pretty close.

Readers of my previous blog will remember the recurring character Gangsta Boo. He’s an erstwhile lover that left the Bay a while back, but we’re still on good terms. I’m pretty sad that he left the Bay, but it’s for the best. Also, some of his friends are sad that he left the Bay. One in particular. I’ll call him Suga T (because he’s a sweetheart and his name doesn’t start with T).

A while back, there was a rumor that Gangsta Boo and Suga T were gay for each other. Yes, I had someone come up to me at a party and tell me that. Both Gangsta Boo and Suga T loved that rumor (mostly because they love attention), and I liked it, too, because, oh, I don’t know, I’m a bit of a fucking freak and, yes, it’s true, I did masturbate to that fantasy more than once. However, it’s just a rouse. They’re merely really good friends. Which is fine.

Now I’m sure you think you know where I’m going with this whole “Devil’s Three Way” theme, but hold your horses for just a second. Let’s back it up a bit. For years, Suga T has been coming onto me and pretty much directly asking me to sleep with him. I relented for all this time, mostly because I knew that all he really wanted was to suck the taste of Gangsta Boo’s dick out my pussy, and afterwards I’d have to suffer through Suga T asking me who’s better in bed, him or Gangsta Boo. Meh, pass. I didn’t need the bootleg version of Gangsta Boo dick because I had the real deal. There was no no point in fucking Gangsta Boo’s best friend because I’d just be thinking of Gangsta Boo the whole time, and I honestly don’t need that in my life.

Last night, I ran into Suga T. Both Suga T and I are sad that Gangsta Boo is gone. That, however, is not enough for me to want to sleep with him. Of course, he propositioned me again, which is fine, but I had to level with him. I told him, straight up, that I didn’t want to fuck him because I didn’t want us to fuck each other and just think about Gangsta Boo the whole time. Suga T said he didn’t mind.

I considered it. I thought: what would it be like to fuck Suga T? Probably good, I guess. But the looming idea of Gangsta T in the room just killed the vibe of the potential sex scene.

Then I got to thinking: Suga T doesn’t mind the idea of Gangsta Boo being in the room. All those gay rumors. And I know Suga T hella loves and misses Gangsta Boo. What if…what if we played that out sexually?

Yup, that’s right: what if I put on a Gangsta Boo mask and made Suga T fuck me and call me Gangsta Boo the whole time?

Oooh, I’m getting wet just thinking about it. It would check a lot of boxes for me: my straight bait fantasies, missing Gangsta Boo, it’s a good way to clear the awkwardness of fucking Gangsta Boo’s best friend (because, honestly, no, Gangsta Boo would not care if I fucked his best friend). Plus I have a pretty in depth of knowledge of Gangsta Boo’s bedroom habits, and I think it would be fun to try to replicate that in a pseudo-gay sex scene.

And you know what else I wanna do? Film it and send it to Gangsta Boo.

This is my devil’s three way.

I texted Suga T asking if he’d be down, but, so far, no response. Honestly, I just wanna slap this guy in the face with a fake dick and make him put it in his mouth…but, will I get to act out my weird, gender bending, kinda gay fantasies? It remains to be seen.


He sparkles in the darkness of night. He refracts all the light that hits him, reflecting it back at itself with a beauty we didn’t see coming. He radiates even we aren’t when looking, even when there is no one to see him. He pierces through the blackness, brilliant and bursting, like white teeth at midnight.

But who would he be in the daytime, when the sun is shining, and the world isn’t looking. Is he only beautiful in moments of stark contrast, when we least expect it? Does he burn in the night because he would shatter during the day? I wonder who he would be without the demons of his darkness. If we would notice him at all if he walked among us right at day break. Is he only a proper creature here, where it is dank and it is a prison. Do we only look at him now, because this is romantic, and without the proper lighting the mood disappears and he becomes one of us. He is resplendent in his cage of midnight. His teeth in the night gleam easy. Would he be a beast if he walked among us? Would we recoil if this weren’t a quick stop in the tour of his world? Would we welcome him with open arms in our home? Or would he blind us in the daylight, and it easier for us to keep him here, like a pet, where his brilliance is easy for us to admire and even easier for us to walk away from.

I walk towards him, hand outstretched. Not to touch him, but to be touched by him. I whisper to him that I will take him away from here if he will take me away from there. We can be wild together in a world that doesn’t want us, so long as we are wild together.


Lately, I have pressed myself with perplexing question: Is there such a thing as an objective reality? In this fever dream we call life, is reality merely a summation of a collective delusion, defined by the things that we agree upon? Reality seems to constantly change from second to second, swiftly becoming different things for different people, incessantly reshaped by new revelations of these so-called “truths.”

What can really be known. What in this life is incontrovertible. What is fact, undeniable and proven despite all the protests. Is reality intended to be a summation of all truths?

Reality cannot be a summation of all truths, because all truths are not known and cannot be known. To claim that reality delineated itself perfectly along the revelations of truth would be to deny what happens in the absence of truth: human creativity. The human mind is keen to draw up so-called truths, dressed up in the garb of truth, with no real veracity behind it. The human mind is so hell bent on claiming that reality is a summation of truths, that we knowlingly create non-truths just for the sake of continuity in our story of reality. This is why reality can never be objective, because we are too busy cleaving truth from non-truth without any real mechanism or measurement or sure fire way to weed out the non-truths.

Our reality is built on a house of cards. Our reality is built on a foundation of rock. We cannot tell the difference between what is about to collapse and what will stand tall forever. We cannot tell what anyone else is holding behind their backs: is it a hand full of wildcards? Or a fistful of brick?

What are you holding. In this reality that you construct for yourself and for others. Are you building something? Or are you breaking it down? Have you created a beautiful reality? Or are you standing on top of something that is secretly teetering? Have you orchestrated the entire collapse? Have you convinced the world that their house of cards is truly sturdy? Or can you tell an intelligent person that their rock solid foundation is in imminent danger.

And then what. How do we rebuild when all we will ever have is rocks and cards, blindly stacked up in the same way all over again.

All I know is I can turn rocks into cards and cards into rocks if you give me the right tools and matters of perspective. Teach yourself how to make the fortress of someone else’s reality crumble, and you will rule their world.