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.

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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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.

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



You little shit,

I know how you self-described “not politically correct” people look at me (and my friends); Basically, you think I alternate between running through the streets looking for something to be offended by, hiding in my safe space, playing the race card, and eating gluten-free snacks; and yet, surprisingly enough, I still somehow carve out enough time in my day to tweet @BernieSanders: “choke me daddy” on an hourly basis*.

Anyways, are you sober yet? Because I want you to take in every word I am about to say with all of your cognitive abilities: I truly did not appreciate you calling me a n*gger last weekend. I really, truly did not.

I get it—you were too drunk. It slipped. You’re not a racist. It was a joke. You have a Black friend. You listen to 2 Chainz. You think trap music is fleek. Fried chicken is lit. For God’s sake, you even tweeted that generic message saying you supported the students of color at Mizzou last fall.


Well, my official response to you is NAH— you fucked up. You fucked up. You really fucked up; because, now I am tired of trying to educate people on basic human respect (i.e. “political correctness”). And before you say it, yes, I know the first amendment protects your freedom of speech. But, I’m going to be totally honest with you when I say I don’t give a damn about the literal interpretation of a constitutional document made hundreds of years ago by a bunch of guys who barely washed their dicks. So, no, you are not being given a pass this time—not from me.

I’m definitely not going to confront you. Instead, I plan to piss on everything you love. As punishment, I have created a long-term, foolproof plan to destroy you.

It will all start on a Monday morning at approximately 5:30am in two years from now. DNA samples have already been collected. I can’t tell you much else, but I can give you some hints.

Do you remember the plot of Gone Girl? Well, I keep a copy of the book by my bedside.


Amazing Ashley

(*And, you know what? Bitch, I might.)

Am I a ‘house nigger’?


It’s no secret that I have a bit of a wild side. I’m like a walking Lana Del Rey song on Friday nights; the only things I’m missing are a lover as old as my father, a heroin needle in my sock drawer, and traces of cocaine on my one hundred dollar bills.

On Friday nights, I walk out of my house in the illustrious Fox Hall drenched in red lipstick; or rather a more fashionable matte plumb lipstick, and an all black mini dress. I go out to parties and bars. I drink fancy cocktails I didn’t have to pay for and schmooze with America’s elite. I wear $1,500 bags and shoes. Weekend bus trips to the mountains to party with IFC fraternity boys were not something I thought to be particularly out of the ordinary in my life. Hell, I once threw up in the back of a finals club at Harvard when I was a teenager. If that doesn’t scream privilege, I don’t know what does.

I can only have a wild side because I have privileges that extend beyond my wildest imagination. Upon birth, I was given a popular 90s name. I went to a private prep school for my entire primary education and now I attend one of the most prestigious and selective universities in the world. I can recite Shakespeare. I was groomed to be proper; to speak structurally accurate English and to eloquently and strategically use my voice.

To top it off, I’m advantageously beautiful—not in the traditional Eurocentric sense—but in a way that makes it easy for people to relate to me. I have big, dark brown Bambi eyes, little pink tinted lips, perfect teeth, and a non-threatening nose.

That’s all right and dandy; but power structures—I’ve been thinking a lot about power structures.

Am I the white man’s fantasy? Am I… a fucking house nigger?

I can’t help but notice how people who are otherwise completely dismissive of blacks, will reference me as a sort of salvation for my whole race—MY WHOLE FUCKING RACE. For God’s sake, I’m one human.

I can party with the “bougie”. I can keep conversation at a polite level of interesting and provocative. I can blend into a room. I can tell a good joke. I can fuck without getting pregnant.

Is my very presence hurting the perception of black stereotypes by way of rigid juxtaposition? God, this is not what I intended. I love my culture; Am I brainwashed?

But, then again, we as black people are not secular. We are as dynamic as any other person is allowed to be. Perhaps, I am changing the perception of the limitations of black culture.

Can a house nigger change the perception the master has of the potential, ability, value, and preciousness of all the niggers? Does my wild side invalidate me as a credible source to the master? Am I a joke or am I changing the world with my unapologetic freedom?

This is going to eat me alive, isn’t it?

the little princess herself
the little princess herself

The Fetish: the uncovered ramblings of an 18 year old fighting an eating disorder

tumblr_nd8odjd9BZ1s1z87yo1_500 I have a nasty fetish for skinny girls with pretty faces.

If it is vaguely clear she speaks a plethora of languages, good God, I love her. Decidedly, I have never wished to have sex with these girls; to tie them up and spank their behind or whatever the kids are into these days. Instead, I kill myself to become ‘these girls’.

I have dwindled my life savings to $127 and quit anything unique about me. I sometimes buy a bikini a size smaller to convince myself that I’m in their league– the league of skinny bitches. Maybe I am in the league. Who the hell knows? I just love girls who are heartbreakingly beautiful with their mathematically symmetric faces, cheery cheeks, perfect teeth, and button noses. Nevertheless, my fetish isn’t my life (though it consumes me sometimes for hours). I enjoy other things; I’m not completely shallow:

I like watching documentaries about prostitution, poverty, racism, and close-minded people in the American south. I like conspiracy theories; Reptilian Theory is my favorite and The Illuminati is probably writing this for me. I like pink flowers and grafted cacti. I like changing my name every few years to keep it fresh. I like nail polish colors and organic chemistry. At age 14, I devoted my life to pop-punk. I also like to dream about the future of the human race.

That being said, I have always thought birthing babies to be simultaneously distasteful and great. While it’s always distasteful, it’s not always great– 99% or more of babies turn out to be of no positive consequence to the world. But, it is that less than 1% that turn into legends that makes having babies not completely useless. There is always a slight chance your baby will grow up to be Lana Del Rey (an alcoholic at age 16, and a superstar song writer post rehab) or Dan “Soupy” Campbell (my pop-punk hero).

Regardless of what I think, I suppose we will all keep having babies though–even though most of them will suck. I will probably have one myself. At the very least, my baby can grow up to be a skinny girl with a pretty face and that in itself is a good enough reason for me to support procreation.