I’m on My Period Part Deux

Or if we’re being really accurate, it’s Part 132 or so if you factor in the year where I took birth control that took away my period (#neverforget).

Yes, folks, it’s here again. My period. Aunt Flo. The crimson wave. My menses. The old uterine overhaul. The monthly cunt punt. The front hole rigmarole.


I’m still cat sitting for my friend and they haven’t figured out how to control their heat yet so it’s hot as balls in here, which if you’ve ever had your period you know is really uncomfortable. You already feel all clammy. Plus I’m the teensiest bit hungover from last night.

By the way, y’all, last night when someone asked me what the last thing I wrote about was, I mentioned the house show and the lack of female performers and our conversation about head hair ending up in your butt crack. No one was interested in discussing women and music, but it started a lively debate about butt crack hairs! Where do they come from? How do they get there? These are the questions we need to be asking ourselves in this election.

I don’t have much to add to my previous post, because I’m on my fucking period and I don’t feel like it, but I thought of a few things:

  1. Do y’all remember that part in 10 Things I Hate About You where she’s like “You don’t buy black lingerie unless you want someone to see it.” Homegirl, do you know what doesn’t show up on black fabric? BLOOD.
  2. The day I got my first period, I thought the horrible back pain that was plaguing me at Disney World was because I played DDR for five hours the day before. This is who I am.

I’m too grumpy for this right now. And sleepy. Both symptoms of having your period. So meta.


Women in Music

Conversations had between three fab ladies while attending a house show where no women were asked to perform (aka most shows, aka the whole music industry):

  1. Getting head hairs stuck in your butt crack or front crack, and the subsequent satisfaction from pulling them out
  2. What pegging each of the individuals on stage would be like, and whether or not this is something we’d want to do
  3. When and where it is acceptable to drink unlimited Lime-aritas (the beach, and everywhere else)image.png
  4. Farting and blaming it on the dog
  5. Farting and blaming it on someone else
  6. How can I fart at this house show because beer makes me gassy
  7. Why do dudes not notice when there are zero women on stage? Why do dudes not notice when all the women in the room are in the audience? When I was the front person of a band, the sound guy often assumed that I was the backup singer (despite being in the literal front of the group) and put the volume on the mic lower than the violinist, who sang backups (but was a dude). My friend who was the only woman in a touring band got harassed constantly and her bandmates were so oblivious that they never thought to tell dudes to fuck off. People always assumed that she and the front person were dating each other. Etc. Etc.
  8. How many times do we need to spill Lime-arita on ourselves before it’s necessary to wash our clothes

Some dude left the GOT-DAMNED seat up before I went into the bathroom and I made a big fuss because I was like a Corona and a half in. Luckily for women everywhere he literally ignored me even though the whole room was watching.

I can tell that I’m still relatively frustrated by this whole thing because I’m having trouble making any jokes about it. I mean, this is one of the reasons my desire to be a musician has vacillated so much over time. I have wonderful, talented friends who are working on their music careers, but they’re almost all male.  The few female musicians I do know have male partners who are more well-known (but not necessarily more talented).

More on this later, because I’m getting grumpy now.


Is anyone else afraid of the word “cubicle?” I am. It conjures images of The Office, or Office Space, or that one movie where Michael Douglas gets out of his car in traffic and walks away forever (I never finished that movie – is it like Eat, Pray, Love?); it reeks of stagnation and failure. It materializes images of dystopian blocks of deadened souls like the cells of a plant under a microscope. Is that a dramatic association to have with a piece of office equipment? Absolutely! Ya girl never claimed to be subtle.


I’m young enough to have plenty of time to “put my mark on the world,” but newly old enough that many successful artists are younger than I am. It’s scary because I’m so ambitious, full of the anxiety of the future’s uncertainty. I can’t fathom the agony of that familiar image: a middle-aged woman wakes up and realizes, all of a sudden, that she’s middle-aged and has accomplished nothing. Does this even happen? It’s hard to imagine that you’d wake up feeling that way all of a sudden – seems like you’d notice it happening over time. But what if I’ve already missed all of my chances to succeed? These fears are, of course, coupled with the reassurance by rationality: I’m young as fuck and I have plenty of time to do shit I want to do. But what if I never go to Germany, you know? What if I shift my career and interests so often that I never really get good at anything? What if I’m past my *biological* prime by the time I want to/have time to have kids? What if I spend my twenties pushing and pushing and pushing and miss all the good stuff? Ugh I need to calm the fuck down.

Moving here as a confident person with big dreams can be humbling. As stubborn as I am, it took actual years for me to realize this. I couldn’t understand why I was slowly losing belief in myself. Of course, it took me eight months to find a full time job despite all the experience I boasted (and I did boast, as you must when you’re a woman and need to advocate for your own ass to get a job), but that was a symptom of the larger problem, which is that everyone here is doing what you’re doing, except they seem to be doing it better. And, even so, they seem to be just as unsatisfied as you are.

Ugh, kill me for bolding “the moral of the blog post.” I hate myself.

What I think I’ve finally realized (and I tend to shy away from maxim-like beliefs, but sometimes you just have to latch onto something to accomplish jack shit) is that the only way you can so-called “make it” is to delude yourself into believing you can. It’s a catch-22, because if you subscribe to the reality that your chances of “making it” are extraordinarily slim (which they are), then they become even slimmer. The only way to increase your chances is to lean into a delusion. Most artists with any level of notoriety worked their asses off for years with the knowledge that their chances of “making it” were almost nonexistent, but continued to push forward as if they were, indeed, going to “make it.” Perhaps that’s an oversimplification. I probably shouldn’t be using the word “you” in this paragraph, because I’m sure there are plenty of people with enough internal impetus to continue pushing forward no matter what happens, but I am not that strong of a person. So, let me alter the message – what I must do in order to continue practicing writing and practicing music and spending time on skills I want to improve is convince myself that I can be great at these things if I do so.

Does it make me a piece of shit if I want clout? The core of the desire isn’t necessarily narcissism, although I’m sure that’s in there. From previous work I’ve done that has attracted an audience, no matter how provincial, I can safely assume that creating work that others enjoy will bring me some satisfaction. The feeling of satisfaction is similar to when I see a film that really “speaks to me” (LIKE MOONLIGHT, FUCKERS), or when I hear a song that seems to have come out of my own brain – it’s less about admiration (although I did take the Harry Potter patronus test and got fucking peacock so that must be part of the desire for an audience) and more about connection. The feeling of success comes from knowing my work has made a connection between myself and someone else. Connection with others is a goal I hold close to my central purpose, which is one of the reasons I resent New York, a place where building (or should I say baking?) a crust around myself feels entirely necessary to my survival, and where despite being surrounded by human beings almost all the time my ability to connect with others is stunted.

I think the essence of all this is that I want to make my mark on the world, just like everyone else, but I also want to be engaged  wholly in the world. I don’t write words or music to observe the world or to have the world at my feet, I do so to embed myself within it. We often lament the limitations of language (me included), but how fortunate I feel that so many other people have had the ability to express with words emotions that I have been unable to convey.

Ok, was all of that too corny? Last night I had the fortune to hear comically loud sex happening somewhere outside the window of the apartment where I’m cat sitting. Usually I get pissy when I have to hear someone else’s sex, but it was so cartoonish I couldn’t even be mad. I mean, I was mad on an existential, why-the-fuck-do-women-feel-like-they’re-supposed-to-sound-like-a-porno level, but tbh this was beyond that. It was actual screaming. Maybe they were filming a porno. I had that thought while it was happening. Anyway, go see Moonlight!

Tuesday Bluesday

This morning the train was super delayed, which New York does just for funzies sometimes, so the train was packed to the point of no one needing to hold on because everyone’s being held up by the people around them. Like a trust exercise where you don’t know anyone and someone might squeeze your butt and/or stab you. The woman facing me clearly had a cold and I was like, “Ugh this lady is going to give me a cold. But at least she’s not a creepy guy.”

I would rather get sick for a week from some lady’s nasty ass cold than be smooshed up against a creepy dude for half an hour. That’s how gross it is to be creeped on, y’all! Take it fucking seriously when women talk about this, because we aren’t complaining about nothing (although I do complain about nothing often, as you may have noticed).

It seemed particularly on the nose this morning when I was listening to 2 Dope Queens, which is normally empowering AF, and this dude starts talking about how this summer he’s vowing to stop “Looking at ass.” As in, he’s going to stop turning around and staring at women’s asses as they walk by, which was going to be really difficult for him. Why is it so hard for you to not be a walking garbage dumpster? Jesus Christ. Am I the only one that really never needs to hear a straight dude talk about women again? I’m going to have to watch like five episodes of The Great British Bake-Off to get over this one.

On my way home from choir, like 9:30 PM, the dude sitting next to me on the train was eating a piece of pizza and fries. Not even out of a box, it was on a paper plate. First of all, who the fuck eats fries with pizza. Second of all, it’s too fucking early for you to be drunkenly eating pizza on the train right now. I fantasized about smacking it up out of his hands so that the pizza would fly off the plate and land neatly (face-down, obviously) onto his stupid blonde buzzcut and drip onto his dumb-ass khakis. Who the fuck wears khakis anymore?

Boring Monday

The Jews are wildin’ out this evening. I Googled “Is it sukkot” to figure out when exactly sukkot ends, and apparently there’s a children’s book called Is It Sukkot Yet and I’m like, wow, Jews really do dig Sukkot. But actually it’s Simchat Torah, which is when you unroll the whole torah and everybody holds it in a circle, and then you dance with it. Come to think of it, that all sounds pretty culty. Oh well, no childhood is complete without some culty behavior.

Speaking of traditions, the cobbler where I picked up my shoes today is also a watch repair shop that buys gold, copies keys and pierces ears! I’m feeling classy as shit with my dry cleaned coat and my shoes that are nice enough to get fixed at a cobbler that also pierces ears.

Ugh, I’m too tired to write anything else. I think I might be having some drowsiness from the Lexapro, but also I’ve been feeling more alert during the day. Having written it out just now, kind of seems like that’s how you’re supposed to feel if you’re a human being and whatnot.

I’m catsitting this basketcase:

I’m going to fuck shit up

Have y’all seen Moonlight yet?

What should I be for Halloween?

Either Google’s gotten Freudian af, or more women work in Google Search than I thought

Here are some costume ideas floating around in my head:

  1. Slutty Donald Trump, aka Donald Trump
  2. Male Hillary Clinton, aka our country’s most qualified presidential candidate to date
  3. Kim Kardashian’s Post Traumatic Stress Disorder that everyone thinks is funny for some reason
  4. French policeman wearing burkini, secretly loving it
  5. White, cis-het male playing a trans woman in a movie
  6. Rey from Star Wars action figure, oh wait those were never made because action figures of women aren’t marketable
  7. Live-action Mulan’s white (??!?!?!??!?!!?!) love interest
  8. Mulan, because apparently white people can play whoever they want
  9. Autism contracted from vaccines, because that definitely is a real thing
  10. Sexy minion, cameltoe sold separately                            tumblr_nwabp6omiu1rith1uo3_r1_250tumblr_nwabp6omiu1rith1uo2_250
  11. Al Jolson’s ghost walking around the set of In Living Color, looking really ashamed
  12. An abortion at 9 months, aka a baby
  13. A New Yorker who Doesn’t Really Care about the bomb on 23rd Street
  14. Someone who had a mental breakdown from staring at Marina Abromovic for too long
  15. A woman whose cheerful smile is punctuated by a pulsating vein in her forehead
  16. Hot dog (or leg)
  17. An Englishman who voted for Brexit and Googled “What is Brexit” afterwards
  18. A soft-butch ex-motorcyclist who is inexplicably straight (aka me)
  19. A botched makeup tutorial
  20. A lady opening a Kombucha over a trash can because she accidentally shook it up running to Soul Cycle class
  21. Rachel Dolezal’s weave

Have y’all seen Moonlight yet? Go see it, right now

Toilet seat drama

Last night I stayed at my boyfriend’s place, which has had some change in personnel (his Danish roommate has her boyfriend in town). When I got up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom, whose door was closed (who the fuck leaves the bathroom door closed after they leave the bathroom? How are you supposed to know if someone’s in there?), THE MOTHERFUCKING SEAT WAS UP! Now you know that my penis-laden beau would never leave the motherfucking seat up. I had to touch the nasty-ass toilet seat in the middle of the fucking night so I could go to the bathroom (meanwhile, is this diabetes? Is death imminent?) because the dude from one of the world’s most gender equal countries can’t put the MOTHERFUCKING seat down!!!

Anyway, I went to see Moonlight last night and it blew me the fuck apart. I’m going to mention it in every single conversation I have for the rest of this year and also probably the rest of my life. Not surprisingly, I’m terrible at talking and writing about movies, but y’all need to go see this shit. I’m not going to put the trailer in this post because then it will juxtapose that work of art with my whack-as-fuck post about having to put the seat down in the middle of the night. Instead, here’s a picture of Pat and Pat’s fat cat:


I want to link to the gorgeous reviews in The New York Times and The New Yorker and every other publication because the film has unanimous acclaim, but I’m glad I saw the movie before I read anything about it. Please go see it, and talk to me about it, forever and ever.