Here are two things I’ve been struggling to say, in no particular order:
I am a trans woman.
I am a Christian.
Mushroom god told me that there’s really only two things: caring, and not caring.
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I know this sounds fake, but, before I transitioned, I sometimes felt phantom limb sensations for breasts that I didn’t have.
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The only thing that I know for certain is if “Nevada,” by Imogen Binnie, were to continue past its final page, James would do heroin.
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I was trying to answer every question that anyone could possibly think of. I was aping Natalie Wynn, in different chairs, up till 8am, speaking truth to imaginary versions of myself who I know won’t listen.
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Someone asks me about Dave Chappelle in an interview. I say,
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A recent discovery: when I wear tights underneath my super-thin-ultra-high-waisted-wide-legged-skinny pants it makes it less likely that you can see my dick through them.
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The embarrassing truth is that I wanted to play a “Songs from the pond,” session, like Mlady had done — but after reaching out to Salt Lick I realized it was an invite-only type deal. They gave me a quote and I thought maybe I could do it myself cheaper,
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