bad advice.

drink the rest of what’s left of the bottle of sangria.

sure, pour a glass of that pineapple wine, too. no, not a tv show/movie pour. they only do that so they can stave off their protagonist’s burgeoning alcoholism that’ll come into play at the eleventh hour. pour a hearty glass. a glass that won’t have you pouring a second. 


it’s easier when you’re drunk. you think you can hold it off like when you’re sober, but you can’t. one lyric in that one kehlani song will have you sobbing into your pink carpet and five minutes later you’ll get over it. not the thing that had you crying in the first place. but the crying. it will come and go as easy as breathing. or maybe hiccups. 

text them. 

forget that they haven’t responded to your last message. tell them whatever you’ve left unsaid. whatever has been weighing you down. maybe they won’t answer you for an hour or more. maybe they won’t ever answer you. but say it anyway.


god never gave me a sister. or, rather my mom’s unfortunate repetitive unions with my father (and the ephemeral presence of two step-fathers) never afforded me one. i used to be real surly about this obvious lacking. 

i wanted bonding at midnight with cereal and home videos. someone who i wouldn’t have to explain why i’m this way or that, why i don’t want my father in my life, why i’m weird about affection – bursting with it but all dammed up. someone made to hold my secrets and me, hers. blood sisters without the bloodletting.

perhaps it’s my oldest child syndrome. i’m the baby of me and my brother, but his autism had me taking the lead. being handed reins and never really getting a say in where or when i steered. i guess i wanted the real thing. a baby sister. if i must be the responsible sibling, have the childish bits of my childhood sliced away, i wanted all that meant. diapers and waking in the middle of the night with my mom for feedings. babysitting to show i was more than capable of being left alone at home like the other latch key-ers and her not coming back to MPs reprimanding her and not the vindictive albeit snoozing father in the other room. 

i never got that. 

i am, however, the oldest of most of my friends. the small, eclectic, slacker with more stories before she turned fifteen than most have their whole lives is technically the mama bear. designated driver and giver of sage advice. keeper of deepest secrets – probably because my memory is shit. supporter of all those bad choices because it’s your life but always the one to make sure you pace your drinks with water and don’t drink on an empty stomach. i drive the getaway car but won’t shift out of park if your seatbelt isn’t on. i beg you to dump his ass but i understand when you stay. 

on the flip side, they get me to try new things like fly to see bands i’ve never heard of and paint while drunk despite the perfectionist i know i am. i get encouraged to problem solve in a time crunch and a room full of doll parts. hotel room walls hear confessions i can’t decide are sins or proverbs. i’m chastised for being safe but you got home alive and with all your fingers, didn’t you?

and somehow i kind of got what i wanted. no judgment when i lived away from home and tried my damndest to flunk out of college. watching heathers at two in the morning and not having eyes rolled at me for having a wealth of trivia about the film in my arsenal. those who check on me when i’m quiet and don’t shush me when i’m loud. we may not talk for months or see each other for a year or so, but we’re making plans before the date is over.

to boast a fifteen year friendship, be loved and supported even though i’m a horrible student to tutor math, and know exactly who to call to witness me eloping because her and her soon to be husband are exactly who i’d want to get ribs with afterward…it’s a special feeling i wouldn’t trade for anything. so thank you for making me laugh and basket carrying me to the guest room when i drank too much tequila, hugged the toilet like a pillow, and passed out in the half bath.

and to every connection i’ve made with another female whether we share a love for tv show, art, or pettiness, i love you and thank you.


new years eve. sunrise, which i never see, and i wasn’t caffeinated or sedated, which i usually am.

this was the year i felt the fear and did it anyway. i may only ever be 99.9% certain, but i’ll be damned if i let .1% hold me back anymore.

2016, it’s been real.

is this why so many pop singers write about december?

the kind of day you’ll pretend didn’t happen because ‘how the hell do we act normal after the things we said?’

the kind of week to trail a saturday when your throat opened up to warn that tequila is not your friend

the kind of month to show you twenty-six isn’t as boring as you believed and your body can be more than your own – but not right now…

the kind of year that can’t die fast enough

the first week.

i’ve been home for four days. i’m sorry, i should mention i was in another state for a week. okay, one more thing, i met my twenty-sixth year while watching the first 48 on my aunt’s couch.

to say it’s been a weird month is an understatement. it’s been a weird goddamn year and you couldn’t pay me to relive it if everything remained exactly the same. so i won’t rehash the good, the bad, or the dirty of being 25 in 2016. 

not worth it. 

let’s just agree there are things i don’t talk about. some things i never have, some i’ve never known or known how to. if my recent online presence is any indication, i don’t talk at all anymore. this previous election cycle had me realizing i don’t have to supply my voice to every fucking conversion because if i did, i’d never stop talking. 

i’ve enjoyed not talking. 

i like not being anxious and paranoid 25/8. i like knowing the elephant in the corner now is really a mouse in the big scheme of things. i like taking care of myself because i’ve always been the only one to do so. i like not engaging every single thing just because it’s there. 

i can, but should i? do i even want to?

that’s selfish. fact, not an opinion. i’ve taken an extended amount of time to myself. a mental health day has become a mental health trimester, which i intend to carry to term. if i don’t now i never will. and considering me and my family history, who knows how long that’d last me if i didn’t…

it’s a hard pill to swallow, but i’m no good to anyone else if i’m not to me first. and i quite like me. 


thirteen days into nanowrimo and i’ve written bupkiss, we haven’t had heat since hurricane matthew, but pinterest did give me tips on how to re-do my closet. 

(okay, my mom did most of the work, but i painted and i’ve been sleeping on an air mattress for a week because my clothes took up my bed, so i get points for something)


my desk is not nearly as cluttered as my head.

my friend sang my mom happy birthday over the phone the other day – like the giant nerd he is – and i’m holding on to small moments like that. 

the weather’s getting colder and i’ve grown quieter and i’m tired a lot. of engaging and apologizing and not being able to be hurt too. so i fall asleep early nowadays. 

i can make matcha lattes and completely clean out my closet, but please don’t ask me how i am.

under the pink.

i’m wearing glitter.

i repeat, i am wearing glitter. maybe it’s not a readily known fact but i hate glitter. it’s so goddamn messy. in my younger years, you could find me in art class any given day being the girl furthest away from glitter – and the color pink. crayons, markers, construction paper, it didn’t matter. if it was pink, i wanted nothing to do with it.

even now, i’m firmly in my mid-twenties and anyone who knows me will tell you – “selah don’t do pink.” it’s not that i’m still the same “pink, that’s girly, gross!” kind of girl i once was; i just never saw the hype over it. and then the more educated about gender norms i became, the more offish about the color i was. no way a color inherently represents a specific anatomical feature nor does my love or hate for that color indicate anything remotely related to my sexuality, yada yada yada.

and yet now…here and there i pick things up. a floral mug with a pink flower. a black, white, and pink to-do list. nail polish. i pause every time, debate the potential purchase, check for another option (a more gender neutral one) oftentimes to “see if they have it in black”. it’s habit, what i gravitate to – or rather what i gravitate away from.

one of the guys, military brat, suffer in silence type – there are plenty of explanations why i’ve been such a tomboy all these years. i don’t regret it a bit, can’t find a real reason to stray from it, but damn if i don’t like self-care for the sheer sake of it.

bubble baths because they’re relaxing. mimosas because there happens to be orange juice in the fridge. put on eyeshadow while fully well knowing i have no place to go. paint my toenails three times in one day because hurricane matthew shut off our power and who the hell cares? splurge on a satin slip or get my nails done. i don’t have to have an event coming up and i don’t have to have a bad week preceding the splurge.

sometimes i just want to, ya know?


i’m drinking coffee while a neighbor helps my mom board up the big window in our living room. hurricane matthew is somewhere off the east coast and we didn’t have the luxury of evacuating. fun!

it’s been a minute so i figured i’d give y’all an update on things

  • i left my office job, a story for another time
  • if you take a look around, i changed a few things on the site – like it’s now a site! i finally purchased the domain name i’ve been fiending after for two years. posts will begin to go up semi-regularly (fingers crossed…)
  • my best friend since sixth grade got married this past weekend and i partook in the ceremony as his “groomswoman” – it was a beautiful service and i made a delicious feast for mosquitos

  • i had legit plans to move to san antonio at the beginning of the year, but 2016 has not gone the way any of us expected, so that is definitely not happening in the foreseeable future. that’s depressing but, again, another story for another day

a few other things have transpired, but they’re not worth mentioning. accept the old while ushering in the new, amirite?

goodnight gotham.

i want to gorge on this feeling.

this “so is this what having the normal amount of serotonin in your system feels like?” kind of feeling

this “it’s the drugs, not the guy” kind of feeling

this “you put me at ease way before i ever put the pills on my tongue and i’ve never felt that before” kind of feeling

this “i want to tell every person i make eye contact with why i’ve got a smile on my face, but i don’t know if i’d tell them about you or my prescription” kind of feeling

this “i don’t need coffee to function anymore but i do need it to want to function now” kind of feeling

this “i’ve always abhorred talking on the phone because of the awkward lulls between conversations and what do i do with my hands, but i crave hearing your voice every day” kind of feeling

this “i don’t have energy to talk about my life, only energy enough to live it and i hope people don’t think i’ve gotten quiet because i have ~feelings~ for someone” kind of feeling

this “my life fell apart in a relatively short amount of time and is piecing itself back together in a way i didn’t expect” kind of feeling

this “i don’t know how to talk about you in a way to convince others you’re real because i don’t half believe it myself and not just because you can switch between a martial arts movie to rent and sing ‘la vie boheme’ verbatim” kind of feeling

this “i don’t know if i believe in fate but i was twenty-five minutes away from never having met you at all” kind of feeling