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.


I, also, Am Afraid of the Police


A year ago to this day, I wrote a well-received essay titled “Am I a ‘house nigger’?” exploring the various privileges that exist in my life and how they are what I supposed to be a “rigid juxtaposition” to the stereotypical black experience in this country. I wanted to come clean about how the various privileges afforded to me have put me where I am today—at an elite university, living in one of the most expensive parts of the country, sharing champagne toasts with billionaires, with unpaid internships at my fingertips. (Note: My family is definitely not insanely rich, but I’ve always lived quite comfortably.) I hoped my essay would let people know that although I have worked hard, I am mainly a product of the privileges afforded to me—privileges that are not given to so many Blacks and other people of color who could be smarter, more qualified than myself; and yet are held back by the hand dealt to them by hundreds of years of history.

This is a different kind of essay. It is not an attack on white people, nor was it ever. It is an attack of the inability for many to acknowledge or even have the experiences to be able to recognize their privilege.

I am not special by any means, but I have had the unique experience of growing up in two worlds—one few get the simultaneous privilege and awfulness of experiencing. On one hand, as a middle schooler, I spent Florida winters drenched in Juicy Couture velour track suits paired with the sheep skin Ugg boots; My ‘Return to Tiffany and Co.” heart sharped chain necklace sparkling with the matching bracelet and ring set. For a casual $1,000, my little neck, wrist, and finger were happily drenched with silver. As described in a previous essay, I was given the education, the cotillion classes, the love from both parents to thrive in a world built for the white man. On the other hand, the same little princess dressed in Tiffany’s and fresh out of her winter cotillion class was called a nigger for the first time.

What I thought was an isolated incident turned into a series of heartbreaks over the years. Boys telling me they could never bring a Black girl—especially one as dark as me—to meet their mom, overhearing workers in my house asking my mom if she was the maid, violent words from golfers asking me how I got into the neighborhood when I walked alone, being told to look more closely at Black and Latino shoppers when I was working in a clothing store, seeing the fear in my mother’s eyes for my brother, being treated kindly whilst hanging out with all white friends and poorly whilst hanging out with Black or dark-skinned Latino friends in public. Things I was ashamed of admitting.

Merely human, people whose perceptions of Blacks were shaped by media rather than interaction use a semi-formed perception of my race to gauge my level of hostility, my socioeconomic status, and my intentions.

And shamefully enough, I harbored many of the same perceptions towards Blacks that I was struggling with combating myself. Poisoned by my environment, I was socialized in a very white world and, thus, had a very ironic view on the intersection of class, race, and socioeconomic status for years to my parent’s dismay. Regardless of my youthful ignorance, I was very much a dark-skinned black woman. I came to painfully understand how the negative stereotypes form in people’s minds because they formed in me– about myself.

Combing through years of self-hatred for the darkness of my skin, the kinkiness of my hair, and even the shape of my head, I was able to mentally combat (and am still actively combating) the perception of Blacks and other POCs spoon fed to me by the world. And, still, regardless of my personal journey to being better, I know that I am the only real-world interaction many of my white friends and acquaintances have with a black person:

I am bright. I am cheery. I am polite and as eloquent as can be whilst meeting and getting to know people because I feel burdened with debunking stereotypes that whisper that I am aggressive, unintelligent, lazy, and ugly. And, still, I know that there are many who do not have the distinct experience of getting to know, to really know, a black person to disprove these terrible things put in their mind. Many have not had the opportunity or seen the need to reach out and know that people of color have to navigate the world in a different way based on the perception forced upon them. And for that—although dwindling quickly amidst video proof, scholarly papers, and endless articles highlighting the mistreatment of African Americans—I am slightly sympathetic for the well-meaning racist (I say “racist” for lack of a better word).

To me, the well-meaning racist is the cherry cheeked, sunny personality that believes color-blindness and love, rather than paradigm shifts in systematic structures and mental brainwashing, are what will solve racism. They were taught to follow the golden rule, but never educated on how hundreds of years of history are the premise for how humans behave today.

To overlook how the unconscious racism in well-meaning people kills Blacks and Latinos at a disproportional rate is to contribute to a system that allows this to happen. To my friends and acquaintances who have navigated the world in a white-coated bubble, I am not here to tell you what to do or how to use your voice—that is up to you. What I am saying is there is a different world you’ve probably never seen– it is not made up. I know this, because I have seen them both. One of them can be quite scary*.

Admittedly, I am coming at this issue from a point of privilege that nearly invalidates every goddamn thing I have to say. Sure—I am called a nigger** every few months by angry men on the street, but there is much worse torture than being called a word. People with less privilege than myself certainly have it much worse than I, a little princess from the coast of Florida. But, doesn’t it make you think? If a little princess from the coast of Florida, sheltered from the worst of the world, is profoundly effected by racial politics, how deeply seeded is the racism that shapes the black experience?

In other words, if you want to know how pervasive racism is in our world– look back to me. Even in the land of sweater vests, sear sucker shorts, and country club memberships, I am still afraid of the police.

**(A big ole’ thank you to my incredible white and non-black friends who are woke a f and fighting the good fight every day. It means the world to us.)

*A Letter to the Boy who Called Me a Nigger: You Have Irked Me.

The Curious Case of Julian


This essay was written in one sitting after a thirteen-hour workday, a conversation with a great friend, and three or four glasses of wine. It’s 1 am. It will stay raw and unedited. Clarity? Development? Consideration? Compassion? Fuck it. Who cares? We live on a floating rock and, therefore, everything is arbitrary.

“Freedom is just another word for nothing left to lose.”

Those words have lit every one of my body parts on fire for years—since some guy in some band gifted me the song when I was 16. Those words, they make me shutter with a poignant sense of something I don’t quite understand. What I do understand is that Janis Joplin’s voice is rough, unadulterated; it’s sexy, it’s dirty, it’s pretty. Its primitive nature reeks of such an emotional and sexual agony that is so fucking vulnerable that I know she’s not lying. There’s no way she’s lying about the pain when her voice cracks like that—that’s the sound of her frontal lobe snapping under the pain. She’s free of the mental chains.

And now, now that I’m feeling vulnerable and stable, I’m going to be like a Janis Joplin song. I’m going to tell the whole truth about the curious case of Julian.

I met a boy named Julian once. I plummeted into a special kind of hell of love with a boy who seemed to be able to keep up with my insanity. I expressed this in a series of letters some weeks later—was rejected. Now neither of us know whom each other is. It kills me regularly.

Why lie? I still feel pathetic for having put myself into the atmosphere like that—to write letters that took me hours, days, weeks to write, to perfect, to second guess myself, to reassure myself that this was the right thing and then send them to Europe, only to be subtly castrated through a painful silence.

Sadly enough, I wrote wedding vows in a wine bar on the Upper East Side on my 21st birthday to him—the one letter I never sent across the sea. It seemed like something that I would inevitably read to him—a cute, funny story I’d tell over a Valentine’s day dinner one day when we lived together in sin. (Damn. The unforgiving reality of the pathetic nature of my utter vulnerability last year really comes alive when I write it down and say it aloud to myself.)

The curious case of Julian is one that I revisit often. It is one that I look back on with a mild regret—I shouldn’t have been so inappropriately open. I didn’t understand how stalkers could lust after something that didn’t think of them back until Julian. I had to truly stop myself a million times from being too weird, too unsettling, too in love with this slight stranger. But, regardless, I love him or something about him, whatever; and I felt guilty about this.

But, then again, this is who I am. I love; I really love. I’m sincere.

I’d always been honest, but never this honest out loud until I sent those letters to Spain. I let my silly self be frivolous, uncalculated—a child.

After much torture, it’s time for me to give myself a fucking break.

Like a spanking on the ass, my fixation on Julian made me cry. But, the thing is, I’m ok. I’m still funny, silly, drunk; impregnated with laughter and vodka sodas. I’m still a child and that’s not a bad thing. In fact, it’s probably a good thing. Like in the Janis Joplin song, I have nothing left to lose. I watched the dreams I had in my mind shatter into a trillion shards of glass. My heart was broken. Hell, it’s still broken. But I have nothing left to lose; and that, and that alone, has given me freedom.

I am so happy. I love without abandon because nothing worse can happen. I’m apologetically dating a 44-year-old billionaire with a big house and no moral compass. I’m fucking free.

The Degradation of Meagan

3b4a477f2ebaaa08af64a604c43699f4.jpgI have been quick, astoundingly quick, to blame anything that goes wrong on Meagan from Drake and Josh. Just last week, I forgot to turn in an online Spanish assignment for the second time in a row. Maybe it was the fact that I went to happy hour and disregarded the importance of my academic life in light of the simple bliss of a vodka soda (with a dash of lime)– but, maybe, just maybe, it was (*squint eyes* *hiss*) Meagan. I choose to believe it was Meagan.

Brothers and Sisters, I invite you to also join me in blaming Meagan. There is no need for you to feel bad for what you previously thought were personal failings and bad luck.

Daddy issues? Meagan. Bad hair cut? Meagan. Donald Trump? Meagan. He didn’t text you back? Definitely Meagan.

She has gotten away with this for too long; we need to put blame where blame is due. We are not the reason why our lives are so f*cked up. We are not the reason for the job market. We are not the reason Zoey 101 was taken off the air. We are not the reason for Kanye West’s $53 million dollar debt. It was Meagan.