Wake up, babe!

The first 2026 eel pit update just dropped.

We are so back.

Oh?

Sorry.

Are you not familiar with the eel pit?

Did you forget about this key moment of hyper-niche, COVID-time, TikTok history??

Were you not locked into the year-long saga of a Kentucky man turning a rain cistern under his garage into a fully functional pond for eels???

Not to be rude…but that’s kind of crazy.

Did you have something better going on from 2021-2022???

Was that like, a super productive and exciting time for you????

Because while you were out doing God knows what,1 the rest of us were forever altered by Nick Tobler, aka Eel Daddy’s hero journey

I remember the day I learned about the pit.

Nay!

I remember the months this took over my life.

The entire process fascinated me.

The sheer amount of prep to create a 5,000-gallon, 3-foot-deep eel sanctuary (air ventilation, water filtration, integrating other fish first, etc.)

The communal naming process for his first eel delivery. Notable stars, Mentally Eel, Meelanie, Steely Dan, and Crunchwrap Supreme.

The sinister nature of this specific photograph.

The fact that he climbs DOWN A MANHOLE to enter this space!! Every day!!

What could possibly possess a person to do this???

I haven’t looked behind our fridge once since we bought our house three years ago!

There could already be an entire eel pit under our basement, and I simply would not know.

I told everyone I knew about the pit. I spread the good word like I was on a spiritual mission.

I spent a full girls’ trip in Austin, Texas, regaling women who did not care to know anything about eels with everything I had recently learned about eels.

Did you know that eels can swim backward?

Did you know that freshwater eels actually start their life in saltwater?

Did you know that some dude in Kentucky is building a PIT of EELS because he thinks it’s FUN????

ARE YOU NOT ENTERTAINED?????!?!

WHAT ELSE CAN I POSSIBLY SAY THAT WILL MAKE YOU CARE ABOUT THIS?!?!?

I was a woman possessed. It was all I could think about.

I’d be having a totally normal conversation, and eels would wriggle their way in, somehow.

No, seriously. I wrote this blog post during that aforementioned girls’ trip in 2022.

Clubbin’ all night, dissecting the eel pit's impact on my psyche all morning:

That whole article is worth a re-read for philosophical bars like:

I’m more relaxed watching a basement full of eels than I am reading about current affairs.2

And.

Before you can take on the world, you need to tend to your pit.

And.

The eel pit is a lesson in manifestation.

Just call me Marcus Aur-eel-ius.

You’ll be thrilled to learn that, in the last four years, the pit has expanded beyond just eels!

There’s a 3-foot-long diamond sturgeon.

There’s longnose gar.

Spotted gar.

Alligator gar.

One of them is named Garlic.

Another is named Garfield.

What a beautiful thing! These creatures are flourishing!

Sure, it’s not normal.

Sure, it’s a bit disturbing.

Sure, it probably violates a very specific set of property and/or animal laws.3

But it’s also soothing to watch, which is a lot more than I can say about my second-favourite pit-based program.

It’s also not hurting anyone?

The fish are thriving!4

The comment section is full of wholesome nerds asking for advice on their tanks.

This is truly the best-case scenario for any illegal operation happening in a cement hole.

Eel Daddy hasn’t had any casualties! Even the two sunfish — who would be tasty, tasty snacks for some of the other, larger fish in the pit — are swimming happily about.

The eel pit is a utopia.

His 2026 update is simply that everyone is content, everyone is cohabiting, and Eel Daddy has “just been letting everyone grow.”

How pleasant! What wisdom!

Sometimes all you need is to leave your red lawn chair in the rain cistern and take a breather.

The eels are already there! They’ll grow on their own.

Everything meaningful takes time.

Four years ago, I grappled with Eel Daddy’s assuredness.

He always wanted to have eels, so he found a way to have eels.

Simple as that.

He laboured over his pit purely for the love of the game.

He was the architect of his own dreams!

When asked for his advice on keeping eels, he replied: “Do it. It's really easy. It's fun.”

Fun!!!

At the time, I was still trying to cultivate a writing practice.

I was unsure of my abilities.

I was drowning in perfectionism.

I never felt like I was doing enough, and I was paranoid that everything I did produce was terrible.

There was no peace in my creative process. Every newsletter was crafted in a swampy dungeon of manic activity.

I was trapped in a basement of my own making, playing with loose, slippery noodles of ideas, trying to figure out why I started this damn hobby in the first place.

I couldn’t see the light at the end of the pit, and nothing about it was fun!!?!?

How could my art possibly be FUN!?!!?

Eel Daddy reflected an ease that was confronting, inspiring, and completely unrelatable.

Reading back that 2022 newsletter, it’s surprising how much of my current voice breaks through.5

All I remember from writing that post was the stress I felt to publish. I was so afraid of typos.

Afraid of sounding stupid.

Afraid of letting anyone read my work.

Afraid of being too try-hard (a cross I will always bear).

In 2026, I’ve mostly outgrown these fears. At the very least, I’ve shed them enough to focus on the writing.

I always wanted to write, so I sit down on Sundays and play on Substack.

Simple as that.

The more I fall in love with the process, the more I shed my own expectations of what “good” writing is, the more I make myself laugh with these nonsense newsletters, the more ease I feel…

Turns out the fun was already there!! It just had to grow on its own.

Eel Daddy, you wise sonofabitch, you.

Anyway…I must alert everyone to the eel pit Redbubble shop and kindly ask that you vote on which of these shirts I should order.

Last thought

In more cylindrical, legless creature news, I fear Worm From Home may overtake my life this fall…

Have I ever been interested in video games? Not really. But this Kafka-esque nonsense is speaking to me on a soul level.

Be the Worm of Wall Street in this silly simulation game about working a remote finance job. Throw your spineless body around the keyboard to invest in the stock market and earn obscene amounts of money. Buy upgrades, train skills, and worm your way up to the promotion you’ve always dreamed of!

5

There’s almost an Allegory of the Cave reference in there, which is as good a reason as any to share this image:

Justin Trudeau was at Coachella.

I’m not sure what is more important to me:

That he was there in support of fellow Canadian Prime Minister, Justin Bieber.

That Katy Perry was wearing a shirt that says “Pls do not give me a rip off your vape no matter what I say.”

OR that I have another reason to force you to read my JT x Katy predictions👇

Anyway… I am currently hungover, watching Season 18’s All RuPaul-A-Paruza Smackdown,1 and inspired to dust off this post from March 2024.

Repost: Mama kudos for saying that. For spilling

Analyzing Drag Race poetry

Every so often, I hear a phrase that rattles me to my core.

Something so cataclysmic that it lodges itself into my everyday vernacular.

Something so profound that I can’t help but quote it given the opportunity.

Something like…

• “Ma’am I’m a Catholic slut,” written by Britney Spears in response to Diane Sawyer

• “Who do you think you are I am,” screamed by this bowling champion

• “This is the skin of a killer, Bella,” said by Robert Pattinson in Twilight

• “Cola! Kirkland if you have,” from The Office as highlighted by Kristen Arnett

• “High heels on my tippies,” rapped by Nikki Minaj

• “It’s not called gym-nice-tics,” from Stick It

• “My uncle Phil’s world’s largest ball of twine in Bundy, Minnesota. It makes me proud I’m an American,” from Drop Dead Gorgeous

And so on, and so forth.

Last week’s episode of RuPaul’s Drag Race gave me a new one.

A contestant, Q, opened up about their HIV status in the Werk Room. She shared her experience with stigma, how challenging it’s been to find the courage to tell her parents, and how supportive her husband has been throughout the diagnosis.

After listening for a few minutes, a fellow contestant (and occasional season villain), Plane Jane responded, "Mama kudos for saying that. For spilling."

"Mama kudos for saying that. For spilling."

I swear my soul left my body when I heard her. I had to pause the show. I had to take a few deep breaths.

What a completely wild, out-of-pocket response to something so serious. Tonally, it feels the same as “That’s hot” or “Bless her heart.”

Is it demeaning? Yes!

Dismissive? 1000%

And yet!

Plane Jane said it with such compassion! She responded to Q with complete sincerity and love. Despite the literal words, her reply seemingly came from a place of pure support.

In my heart, I believe Plane Jane was genuinely giving kudos to Q for saying that. For spilling.

For the past week, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it. It’s impossible to find a scenario where the phrase doesn’t work.

• When a client gives me negative feedback on a proposal: “Mama kudos for sharing that. For spilling”

• When Mark reminds me of chores I said I would do around the house: “Mama kudos for sharing that. For spilling”

• When the cat meows for more food even though he’s been fed twice: “Mama kudos for sharing that. For spilling”

It’s practically a perfect sentence.

So perfect that fans have been using it to punch up iconic TV and film moments. For example:

What an improvement! What did he even say originally? It doesn’t matter now, because this is canon.

I didn’t think it was possible to make this scene from Fleabag any better, but here we are.

Oscar-worthy.

Despite the joy this sentence has brought me (and the internet), people have been quick to criticize Plane Jane. Many think she was rude and unserious in a moment that required delicacy.

I disagree. Not only was she as real as I think Plane can be (shade intended), but I don’t think the sentiment was bad.

Behind the slang, Plane is saying “Thank you for sharing.” Is that not validating? What else is there to say besides expressing gratitude for hearing someone's story? To give kudos, even.

A kudos which, I’ll argue, was a congratulation on Q’s bravery. If you’ve been watching this season, you know Plane is never one to volunteer compliments. You also know she always refers to other contestants as “sisters”.

In this moment, Plane chose “Mama” and“Kudos” intentionally. When assessing intent, these details matter.

It would have been stranger and more self-serving had she taken the opportunity to give an impassioned speech back to Q.

Let’s take this a step further (because why not)

What does it actually mean to “spill”?

Spilling tea is slang for sharing gossip. In a literal sense, it’s a pouring of information from one vessel to another.

You cannot spill with a closed or empty container.

Sharing something about yourself, therefore, requires openness and substance. Not everyone is capable of that kind of emotional flow. Plane, for example, has kept her feelings out of sight from the cameras and other contestants.

To spill is to be honest and maybe a little messy. It’s to risk splashing your vulnerabilities on someone else. It’s being a Tupperware full of soup in a backpack, hoping that, when you inevitably explode, you won’t ruin anything important. It’s about picking a safe moment to empty your guts.

Having someone appreciate you for that spill is all you can ask for.

If we analyze it that way, Plane is saying

Stunning.

Good writing is good editing, and she packed a punch with those seven words.

I’m being generous in my assessment because I have no idea what I would have said in that same scenario. Q’s story is gut-wrenching and a lot to process on National television while you’re getting ready to walk a runway in front of RuPaul. I don’t think anyone can guarantee they’d say something better.

They definitely wouldn't have said something funnier.

Just when I thought this article was over, Miss Plane hit me with another flawless phrase.

In Friday’s episode, after Plane’s first emotional moment on the show (crying over how badly she wants to win Drag Race lol), she deflected attention off herself by saying, “I hate real moments boots.”

She’s unstoppable!!

A poet!

A philosopher!

Below is from a very helpful Reddit post on the definition of boots for those who don’t know:

Tacking boots to the end of a comment emphasizes the sentiment. As Bob the Drag Queen explained it to Vanity Fair, “In real life you would say, ‘This outfit is very fierce,’ but in drag you would say, ‘This outfit is fierce boots.’”

In the comment section, another user elaborates that “boots” is,”.. an adverbial modifier… analogous to sentential tags like, "totally", "for sure."“

With that understanding, “I hate real moments boots” is the perfect emphasis. It immediately strips the seriousness and emotion out of the moment.

It’s a sentence palette cleanser.

Also! It’s further proof that her reaction to Q was totally genuine.

Did you know that Plane Jane hates real moments boots!?!

No wonder “Mama kudos for saying that. For spilling” was the most authentic comment she had in her arsenal.

It’s all she could give.

It’s all there ever was.

And it’s all we ever needed.

Last Thought:

This has been an extra-long winter. A winter categorized by waiting.

…Waiting for spring.1

…Waiting in Ticketmaster queues.

…Waiting at the doctor’s office.

…Waiting for the next episode of The Pitt.

Above all, waiting in airports.

So far this year, I’ve been on 4 work trips and a vacation.

My friend shared an app with me called Flighty, which is essentially Spotify Wrapped for travel. It tracks your flights and creates fun stats about distance travelled, time in the air, and airline performance.

How fun!

Who doesn’t love data-based storytelling?

Or so I thought, until I saw my 2026 Delay Report….

Mind you, this is all within 6 weeks.

6 weeks!!

47 days, to be exact.

I’m averaging more than 2 hours of flight delays per week!

19 minutes A DAY of lost time!!

This also doesn’t factor in my actual time in the air, the Ubers to and from the airport, or any TSA shutdown security lines… All Herculean tasks in and of themselves.

No, no, no.

These 15 hours were caused by weather concerns and mechanical issues alone.

Time sacrificed to Newark, LaGuardia, and Pearson airports.

Time spent deplaning aircrafts, changing gates, or sitting on the tarmac.

Time that has been cleaved from my existence!

Time that I can only hope was sucked from my life source by an unseen airport entity and used as energy. Pieces of lost souls powering the bag carousel like a mechanical River Styx. The ultimate price for air travel.

Between this and my 0/27 Roll Up The Rim streak, it’s clear that I am not one of God’s chosen children.

That, or someone is paying an Etsy witch to curse me.

If you’re reading, ha ha ha!

Very funny!

We’re all having a great laugh over here!

I’m still processing how long 15 hours actually is.

I made a list of 15 things I could have done with that time instead of waiting in airports:

1. Taken 5 weeks of a university course

2. Flown from Toronto to London and back

3. Worked two full days

4. Walked a marathon and then watched The Titanic twice

5. Became certified to operate a forklift

6. Landscaped our backyard

7. Baked croissants from scratch

8. Listened to A Tale of Two Cities with an hour left over to pause and reflect

9. Stopped drinking water and became at imminent risk for seizures and organ failure

10. Watched a fruit fly egg hatch

11. Learned how to do a backhandspring, probably

12. Used up all of my therapy, massage, and physiotherapy benefits

13. Driven to my parents’ house in Ottawa, cooked an entire turkey dinner, and went back home

14. Watched all of The Hunger Games movies, including 3 extra hours for however long the newest installment is

15. Completed a third of my Private Pilot License, so I could just fly myself home and never have to be part of this nonsense ever again!

What did I do instead?

Great question!

I sat quietly.

I stared at the walls.

I listened to Normal Fucking Rockwell about 10 times.

Over and over again, I accepted the possibility that this is where I would live from here on out.

I contemplated life in various airports and made imaginary alliances with fellow passengers.

It might not be so bad.

I could run through the halls like a hamster in a plastic tube.

I could storm the airline lounges.

I could feast on endless popcorn in O’Hare.

Bathe in the fountain at LaGuardia.

No one would remember; this is a city of transient beings!

Hope is a dangerous thing for a passenger like me to have.2

Nothing is real in an airport!

Time doesn’t exist!!

Schedules don’t matter!!!

You can be your worst, most disgusting self.

Beyond the security check, we’re in endless purgatory, helpless to the whims of the airline overlords.

Bow down!!

Worship at the altar of the flight status screens!!!!

Nothing else can help you.

It’s every passenger for themselves.

There isn’t even a place to buy new pants!3

We’ll fight to the death over charging stations!

We’ll trample each other on the moving walkway!

This is ORD of the flies!!!

The rules are the only thing we've got!

DON‘T LEAVE YOUR BAGS UNATTENDED.

ONLY TWO ITEMS PER PERSON.

HAVE YOUR BOARDING PASS READY AND YOUR PASSPORT OPEN TO THE PHOTO PAGE.

Brace yourselves for anarchy!

After each delay, whenever it was that I made it home, I wept for the end of innocence, the darkness of man's heart, and the fall through the airport of my own sanity.4

…Probably would have been cooler to be forklift certified.

Last thought:

4

I will never stop quoting classics in these whack-ass newsletters… Someone has to appreciate it! I am bridging timeless texts to modern woes! My life’s purpose is to create a place on the internet for memes like these to thrive:

Happy Sunday!

The Oscars are two weeks away, and we need to have an important conversation.

Something many of you aren’t ready for.

Something that’s about to shake the table.

This newsletter has tackled sexual assault, dementia, and the endless trap of counting protein...

Today I have a much braver, much more intimate topic.

I come to you, unhinged theory hand, looking for solace.

For validation.

For grace.

Get out your tinfoil hats and join me on this descent into madness!

Take a deep breath in.

Out.

Brace yourself.

I’m sharing this conspiracy with screenshots and timestamps.

It’s important to cement myself in the history books now before the rest of the world catches on.

Here is a text to myself from Sunday, August 17th, 2025, at exactly 8:05pm.

Stay with me on this.

First, I must also be so so so clear that this thought came to me a month before we even suspected they were dating for real.

At the time of this text, they’d been seen at one dinner.

I did not ask to be clairvoyant.

Like the groundhogs, I was forced into this life.

I certainly wish my powers could be used on any other topic.

Alas, this is what the universe has shown me, and so this has become my vocation.

At first it was just an incling.

A spidy sense that this relationship had legs.

I saw what they must see in each other.

Justin Trudeau and Katy Perry are both theatre kids at heart.

They are bombastic.

They are cringe.

Together, they could be free.

Besides, what is the Hollywood dating pool but a rock garden of career stepping stones?

Is there such a thing as a celebrity relationship that doesn’t lead to a new project, venture, or professional announcement??

If a famous person goes on a date with another famous person, and there isn’t a public relations intern calling the papparazzi to take a photo, did it even happen????

Mind you, I don’t think this relationship is staged. I’m not claiming Justin sought out Katy Perry as a way into entertainment.

No, no, no.

What I feel in my bones is that Katy will inspire Justin to dive back into his acting roots.

They met by circumstance, but the full possibilities of this connection are now taking hold.

Let’s be crystal clear.

Justin Trudeau has always been interested in acting.

He’s a former drama teacher.

He has an up-to-date IMDB page.

He was the first active political leader to be an extra special guest judge on RuPaul’s Drag Race

He was the star of a 2007 made-for-TV movie about WWI.

He played himself in an award-winning indie film in 2021.

Most inexplicably, he recently made a cameo on his son’s YouTube page. (We don’t have time to get into Xav Trudeau’s hip-hop career right now, but that’s a whole other can of worms.)

Less we forget the charity boxing match:

Less we overlook his incredible physical comedy:

This is a man who’se been practicing his own stunts for years.

Not only that! He found ways to insert them into a political career!

Astounding stuff.

The politics might be over, but Justin is young. 54 is still heartthrob territory.

He has nothing but time, an incredible hairline, and a kooky pop star to encourage him! Why wouldn’t he pursue his dreams!?!

In my mind, this is how it all plays out1

First, he’ll be Katy’s date to a red carpet event. Maybe even the MET Gala or Cannes in May.

Then he’ll take a page from the Travis Kelce playbook and do an onstage cameo during one of her performances. The next leg of her tour kicks off in June.

Maybe he’ll find a reason to pop by Saturday Night Live.

Next, he’ll book some podcasts. The SmartLess guys surely are chomping at the bit for this interview….

Possibly, he’ll announce something like a small stint on a show or a cutesy summer film. Something that still allows him to play himself, or a version of himself. A side character like Hugh Grant in Love, Actually.

Now things are getting serious. He’s going with Katy everywhere. They are a multi-talented super couple.

Catch them at the VMS.

At the Grammys.

At next year’s Vanity Fair Oscar party.

Justin decides to move to LA full-time. He gets tan and wears more unbuttoned shirts with sunglasses. Soon, he’ll find a posse of similarly-aged Hollywood men to be photographed with. Paul Rudd. Mark Ruffalo. Rob Lowe. Patrick Dempsey. etc..

This is his moment to move into something more serious and show his acting chops in an indie movie or play.

Who is Justin without his popstar girlfriend?

The tabloids go crazy with the news of his next project.

Maybe he does the method.

Maybe he shaves his head.

Maybe he pushes for a supporting actor nomination in a boxing movie where he can revisit his skills in the ring.

It won’t work, of course. Either the movie is a flop, or he’s beaten out by Timothée Chalamet, creating some tension in his rise.

Here comes the publicity stunts!

Xav Trudeau is on a drug spiral.

Katy Perry is spotted getting dinner with Orlando Bloom in an intimate restaurant.

Justin gets too drunk with Paul/Mark/Rob/Patrick and is photographed hitting on a waitress.

Everything seems to be crumbling around him.

From the ashes he rises! He doubles down on his art.

Maybe he takes singing lessons2 in preparation for his magnum opus: Jean Valjean in the 2037 reboot of Les Misérables, exactly 25 years after the last movie’s release.

OR!!!

Even more touching!

Playing his own father in the Pierre Elliott Trudeau biopic:

The reviews are incredible.

In his Oscar speech, he thanks Katy for reigniting his love of the arts! For sticking with him through the last few years.

He talks about his father!

He says everything in both English and French!!

The cameraman pans to Kim Cattrall, who is still very much alive and beaming at Justin like a son.

Oh, Canada plays!

Timothée Chalamat is crying in the bathroom!

Afterward, Justin and Katy relocate to Ottawa.

Sometimes we meet up when I go to visit my family for the holidays. He can’t believe I predicted all of this and pulls some strings to have a monument of me erected in the Byward Market.

Everyone calls me The Oracle of Orléans.

It’s a heavy burden, but I understand this is what the world needs me to be.

Alas, there is one potential wrinkle to this theory.

As much as I expected Justin to immediately attend music-oriented events with Katy, we’ve instead seen Katy attend politically-focused events with Justin (ie, the World Economic Forum).

Based on her very strange publicity trip to space, I am slightly worried that she’s also angling for a career in politics.

My best guess is that she wants to become the first president of the moon, a perfectly chaotic and impossible title only she could strive for.

Peace and blessings to Katy in her endeavours.

Stay tuned, because I WILL be updating this newsletter as their relationship progresses.

History has its eyes on me.

Last thought

Co-Star not understanding the whole point of this newsletter:

I’m on a work trip for the Super Bowl, culminating in a Monday wine-tasting excursion.

True to form, I’ll be sporting this ‘lil number to watch the game with my colleagues:

With a pearl necklace, of course! It would be rude to make the possums feel overdressed!

All that in mind, it felt like the perfect time to republish this very random, very relevant post about wine-drinking rats and Salesforce.

Enjoy, and I’ll be back in your inbox next week

xoxo,

Your fav side piece

Subscribe now

Squeak, squeak, squeak, my little freaks!

I am — once again — sending an email about rats.

Nothing compels me to write more than an unusual creature exhibiting unusual behaviour.

Despite this newsletter’s sexy branding, this is and will forever be a space for me to talk about rodents, bugs, and eels.

aka: Your Sunday morning Vermin Sermon…

ANYWAY

Last month, scientists discovered that rats can distinguish between two white wine varieties.

Nine rats — Badger, Darren, Edison, Hero, Lionel, Peanuts, Shrodinger, Shaun, and Thomas — were tasked with sniffing the difference between Riesling and Sauvignon Blanc samples in exchange for tasty, tasty treats.

Sadly, Peanuts could not figure it the f*ck out.

But! Everyone else took to the white wine like a bachelorette party in Prince Edward County.

Better, even!

Because they actually could tell the difference between the wine and no one cried, drunk texted an ex, fell off a bike, or started passive-aggressively posting in the group chat about Splitwise costs…

I personally cannot stop thinking about the experiment setup:

They built a tiny, personalized Costco sampling station for rats!

He’s in a miniature, one-rat-only gelato shop, testing all the flavours!

The lazy Susan drive-through window is a masterpiece to behold. What ingenuity! What craftsmanship!

And for what??

What do we gain from teaching rodents about wine tasting?

Is there a practical use case for this?

Can they be employed by the LCBO?

Are we starting a new rodent-focused entity for booze control? The Liquor Creature Board of Ontario???

This mystery has led me to a new Sunday morning Google search low:

According to the study, the rats’ ability to distinguish between the wines proves they can conceptualize and categorize without language.

Science has traditionally assumed that our communication allows us to draw distinctions that non-linguistic creatures cannot.

Example: You can spend a bunch of money and a bunch of time learning how to sniff out wine varietals from someone who has already spent a bunch of money and a bunch of time distilling this skill.

The rats — by contrast — figured this out in isolation.

Besides that idiot, Peanuts, they could reliably classify the wine within 20 seconds of smelling each sample.

So the lesson is: Most people are no better at wine tasting than the average rat.

Something to consider the next time you order a bottle for the table….

Well… That’s all for this week!

As much as I would love to continue giggling in your inbox about various creatures (did you hear about the Worm Blood Moon this week???), I have a ton of work to do for my real job.

….Not that this newsletter isn’t real, but it’s surely not paying the bills…

SO! Sugar Mama has to venture into the deep, dark mines of Salesforce to keep this hobby afloat.

Despite all my rage, I am still just a rat in a (corporate) cage:

Sending a virtual cheers to all of you! With a rat-approved Riesling, of course.

Last thought:

Me sending out this newsletter while my work inbox overflows:

DISCLAIMER:

I got a haircut yesterday, and the woman put layers (!!!) in my blunt bob (!?!?!?)

So nothing matters to me anymore!!!

This newsletter is stupid!

Everything is stupid!!

I am and will forever be HIDEOUS!!! There is simply nothing that can be done!! Read at your own peril because this is now the blog of a swamp creature!!!

Happy Sunday!

2016 is having a moment, and I’m mad about it!

Everyone is wistfully posting throwbacks with VSCO filters, pink Starbucks drinks, and flannel shirts.

That’s not what I remember!

2016 was the year I went through the biggest breakup of my life.1

The year all my clothes became too tight.

The year I moved apartments three times.

The year I lost faith in the American people.

Mostly, I remember it as the year Hilary lost.

2016 was the beginning of the end!

It was the time before the fall. We were dangling on the precipice of political hell, and we didn’t even know it!

We were Mufasa, right before he was trampled by wildebeasts!!

And, truthfully, that’s what the clubs felt like.

They were messy.

They were uninhibited.

They had weird, sweat-infused condensation stains on the ceilings.

We were all dancing like we were running out of time.

I can practically taste the nausea!!

I can feel the porcelain on my forehead!

The sticky bathroom floor on my knees!!!

In 2016, puking was just part of the going-out experience.

“Let it out, girl”, we’d say in unison, because it was totally cool and normal and healthy and fun!!

Now you can even drink MORE!

Because your stomach is EMPTY!!

And therefore SKINNY!!

And therefore ready for more SHOTS!!!!

That’s how it works!! That’s just basic science!!!!

Looking back at pictures is a jumpscare.

My Instagram grid is filled with a girl I don’t recognize (only in part because of too much FaceTune).

She’s aimless.

She’s attention-seeking.

She’s never once checked what her hair looks like from the back.

She’s never even heard of “setting spray.”

Of all my 2016 offences, these are the ones that keep me up at night:

• Accidentally flashing an entire gala during a speech

• Being banned from a bar for trying to make my own jager bombs

• Puking on my degree after a night out2

• Getting headbutted by a man I picked a fight with

• Crashing a wedding

• Wearing heels that I couldn’t walk in

• Wearing a tiny velvet choker to a rave that my best friend had to remove so I wouldn’t die in my sleep

• Wearing black lipstick out, and letting it slowly migrate all over my face

• Passing out in a snow bank

• Making out with a friend’s ex-boyfriend, simply because we shared an Uber home

• Making out with my ex’s friend, simply because he was being nice

• Making out with literally anyone, because any male validation was enough

• Regularly finishing small jars of Kraft peanut butter with a spoon3

• Dating a man who scalped tickets out of his van.

• Dating an aspiring YouTuber4

• Dating a man with a toddler, who then became my stalker

• Dating a 19-year-old, which doesn’t sound that bad, but at 22, it felt horrific

Forgive me, Internet, for I have sinned…

The worst part is, at the time, I saw most of this list as a badge of honour. I thought it was all fodder for a stand-up comedy career that I was 100% not pursuing in any real way.

I thought I could, and therefore the chaotic, hot-mess behaviour was justified. It was actually in service to the amazing career I was surely going to stumble into one day! I would make a joke so hilarious, tell a story so shocking, that Netflix would appear on my doorstep and beg me to do a special.

As I write this post at 8 am on Saturday, face mask on, getting my steps on a walking pad, it seems impossible that I was ever that girl.

This is not the same body.

This is not the same brain.

All of the qualities I thought were my best — sarcastic, impulsive, unfeeling — turned out to be the parts of myself I like the least.

But somehow, that is still me!

We are intrinsically tied, for better or worse.

It’s a nightmare, and all of you are forcing me to remember!!

Why!?!

There is simply no need!

Isn’t the current state of the world enough to grapple with?!

Are we going to do this again every ten years??

In 2036, will the AI overlords even allow this time to stop and reflect!?!?

Probably not!

I guess, then, I should take this moment to also contend with who I was in 2006, wearing bandanas and snarky graphic t-shirts.

Making up imaginary worlds and reading the Brothers Grimm fairy tales.

Thinking the world was going to end on June 6th.

Entering the talent show with an airband called the “Food Fighters,” dressed as a banana and performing a Weird Al song.

And in 1996, with a pink satin pillowcase over my head, pretending to be a ghost.

Colouring in my mom’s anatomy textbooks.

Eating cream cheese out of the container with my hands.

Locking myself in the crate with our dog.

Those girls are much easier to trace to my present-day self.

They were macabre. Imaginative. A little shy.

2016 is the only part of my history where I truly feel that I lost myself.

It happened and unhappened subtly.

I didn’t even notice how far a departure it was until one day I was 31, and the internet was asserting that 2016 is back(!!), and I was accosted by a version of myself that I no longer recognized. Someone who’d been caught up in the partying and the showmanship and the shock value.

A quiet girl who became popular dyed her hair blonde and turned into a menace.

That’s a rite of passage for any pop star, really.

Except for Jennifer Lopez!

J. Lo exists outside of any eras or album reinventions.

This is her…then.

This is her….now.

She revisits old versions of herself (ie: Ben Affleck) freely, earnestly releasing Dear Ben in 2002 and Dear Ben, Pt. II in 2024.

She has no shame.

She has no fear.

She is and forever will be Jenny from the block. No matter where she goes, she knows where she came from.

Which, to bring The Lion King back into this, is basically the same message ghost-Mufasa gave post-wildebeast death:

Look inside yourself. You are more than what you have become. You must take your place in the circle of life.

Remember who you are.

The lesson here is all the usual therapy bullshit we’re used to.

Extend yourself grace.

Be kind to your past self.

Know it all happened for a reason.

Yadda yadda yadda.

But I don’t want to be nice about it!

2016 was a bad year!

I hate that bitch, and you can tell her I said it!!!

This is me…now, formally disavowing who I was…then.

And! Since I can’t change anything about the past, I’ll be doing this instead:

Last thought

The best thing to come out of 2016

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“TRUE! — nervous — very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am.”

—The first line of Edgar Allan Poe's, The Tell-Tale Heart.

And also me.

All the time.

Friday is October 31st, and I still haven’t posted a spring or summer photo dump.

Time is running out.

Spring was two whole seasons ago!

I’ve already revealed a Halloween costume in my story.

The chronology is all wrong, and I’m panicking.

Unfortunately, my nervous system cannot distinguish between actual danger and choosing 20 photos to put in an Instagram carousel…

My anxiety has me scrutinizing my camera roll with a vulture-like eye.

I’m mentally ripping each picture to shreds and hoarding them in an album called “Spring 2025.”

I’m avoiding everyone else’s carousels captioned “super late recap”, lest I crack under the pressure.

My draft might as well be a body under the floorboards. I can hear it beckoning to me from the Photos app.

Only I don’t hear a living heartbeat. No no!

I hear the soft double finger taps of 100-200 tiny, red hearts.

Taptap — taptap — taptap — taptap.

My friends will love this post.

Taptap — taptap — taptap — taptap.

The world needs it!

Taptap — taptap — taptap — taptap.

In fact, everyone is angry that they don’t already have it!!!

Taptap — taptap — taptap — taptap.

I’m late and therefore not relevant and therefore fundamentally bad and therefore also ugly because that’s how it works!!

I don’t make the rules!!!

“But why will you say that I am mad? The disease had sharpened my senses — not destroyed — not dulled them.”

Edgar gets it.

I’m not crazy. I’m just hyper-aware.

My obsession has made me a dump connaisseur.1

Photo dumps aren’t about posting.

They’re about curation.

Can you not see the themes? The overarching message?

There is intention behind the order of each photo.

There is meticulous, Da Vinci-level measurement in the ratios of close-ups, full-body shots, scenery, food, friend cameos, pets, thirst-trap selfies, and quirky staged items.

There is artistry in the accompanying caption, song, and location choice.

Carousels are displays of modern craftsmanship.

Of storytelling.

A picture is worth a thousand words; ergo, a 20-slide Instagram carousel is an 80-page novella.

People take years to write those!

And they bring in reinforcements!! Beta readers, agents, developmental editors, line editors, etc..

The photo dump, by contrast, is a one-woman show. It’s a feat of cinematography, direction, screenwriting, and editing.

This isn’t something you can take lightly!

Again! I am not crazy!!

I am an architect!!!

The best art looks effortless, and that takes a great deal of effort!!!!

(See also: “No-makeup makeup” augmented by Botox, blephs, and filler. “Undone” waves created with heat wands. No-filter photos enhanced by Ozempic, body contour, and “yoga boob” implants. “Quiet luxury” fashion that camouflages just enough with normies so only other rich people know you’re rich, etc…)

What will come across cool? Natural? Interesting? How do you mould perception with 20 images?

You have to put yourself in the mind of your followers to see your page as a living, breathing canvas.

I am simply trying to be attuned to the needs of my flock. Like Jesus or Mr. Beast.

…Only without making a spectacle of the poor to flaunt my prowess and charity.2

“How, then, am I mad? Hearken! and observe how healthily — how calmly I can tell you the whole story.”

It wasn’t always this overwhelming.

In May, someone took a picture of my coworker and me at an event.

I liked it, but not enough to post as a stand-alone.

It felt too intense to share. Are we that close? Does a picture of the two of us belong on my main feed?? Will she think I’m obsessed with her???

I thought it would be easier to pair it with other photos.

But what? I had no other options!

I had to wait until more opportunities presented themselves.

Back then, the taptap — taptap — taptap — taptaps were merely suggestions. They were inklings about what this post could be.

“It is impossible to say how first the idea entered my brain; but once conceived, it haunted me day and night.”

Maybe I’d snag a pic at that next event.

That concert.

Taptap — taptap — taptap — taptap.

That work trip.

Taptap — taptap — taptap — taptaps.

That friend’s birthday.

Taptap — taptap — taptap — taptap.

I could harvest all season long!

My calendar would simply morph into a production schedule.

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and I was beholden to a growing list of social plans. How kismet!

I would play Spielberg, capturing cute signs, dinner plates, scenery, weird posters… idk…just whatever catches the eye.

Something interesting. Anything interesting.

Taptap — taptap — taptap — taptap

Slowly, slowly, the album became too full.

I had to switch from sourcing to editing, but my camera roll never slowed.

I was hoarding options. Collecting selfies like horcruxes.

Just one more close-up shot.

Taptap — taptap — taptap — taptap

One more cute outfit.

Taptap — taptap — taptap — taptap

One more landscape.

Taptap — taptap — taptap — taptap

And it will be complete!

Taptap — taptap — taptap — taptap

I will be complete!!

But there’s no deadline.

I could keep adding, changing, and perfecting forever. Forever chasing the Ideal Form of a summer photo dump.

How do I decide when to be finished?

When is the right time to post?

My own arbitrary deadlines came and went. I didn’t post at the end of spring. Not at the end of summer.

Now — 4 days out from Halloween — I’m forcing myself to do it.

…If only I could think of a caption.

“You fancy me mad. Madmen know nothing. But you should have seen me. You should have seen how wisely I proceeded — with what caution — with what foresight — with what dissimulation I went to work”

Oh, I see.

You think I’m immune to the futility of it all.

Think again!!

I am as locked into the ridiculousness as I am to the want.

Every post eats at my soul for days, nay weeks, nay months before I publish!

Nary have you met a more thoughtful poster than me!!

Inevitably, there is a stage of curating when I reach a whole new wave of questions:

Why does this matter?

Should I delete social media??

Is it self-indulgent to use all 20 photos in a carousel?

Does posting inherently make me an attention-seeker?

Am I including these food pictures because I actually like them? Or because it’s vain if every picture is just me?

Will people know that technically some of these photos are from early October, therefore making the “summer photo dump” null, void, and a complete fabrication?

Do I have any integrity?! Any class!!!

Should I just scrap everything and post 20 selfies all taken from the same 5-minute window instead? Is that punk rock or a cry for help?

What is the line between dump and masterpiece?

Am I actually hideous and lame? Has everyone who has ever complimented me been lying to spare my feelings?

Does my level of anxiety about this post signal that I should be on medication?

What kind?

Does being interesting or beautiful even matter when we’re all going to die???

Will I still lament over these trivial decisions when I have children? Or will my brain just be supercharged with a million more stressors?

Are we going to be an emoji-on-kids-faces family or an overshare-until-my-kids-hate-me family????

“Was it possible they heard not? Almighty God! — no, no! They heard! — they suspected! — they knew! — they were making a mockery of my horror! — this I thought, and this I think”

None of this is reasonable. I know that.

But I also know that I am not alone!!

Surely you all hear the tapping as well!!

Don’t lie to me!!

We are all caught in this same social media rat trap! And it will never be over. Not really.

Posting this dump will only slow the next inevitable wave of taptap — taptap — taptap — taptaps.

There will be Fall.

Taptap — taptap — taptap — taptap

Winter.

Taptap — taptap — taptap — taptap

Spring again!

Taptap — taptap — taptap — taptap

An unrelenting seasonal flow of collecting and posting of photos until we die.

Or!

Until we sever the Instagram umbilical cord and become unreachable.

But we won’t! We’ll persevere!

Why?!?

YOU KNOW WHY!!! YOU DON’T NEED ME TO SAY IT!

BUT I WILL!

Because I need dopamine!!!

I must have it!!!!!!

I YEARN FOR IT!

I will scream into the social media void forever!!!! What is the point of living if I’m not reminding everyone that I do fun things!!! I wore cute outfits!!! I have friends!!!!

And you all like me!!!!!!!

We all like each other!!!!!

What a UTOPIA OF MUTUAL LIKING AND NORMALCY!!!!

“I admit the deed! — tear up the planks! — here, here! — it is the beating of his hideous heart!”

…Anyway…

Please like my photo dump whenever you see it. Thnx! xoxox!

The album in question

Yes, I am taking suggestions. Yes, there are 78 photos in it…

Happy Thanksgiving!

I’m trying to spend more time reflecting on past work. This blog’s archives are deep, dark, and ready to be mined!

Remember the eel pit?

Remember the Britney puns??

Remember the extreme and palpable depression of 2021?!?!

I’ve produced a rich history of text, and I’m ready to unearth its spoils!

Today, I’m revisiting a post from September 2023.

My grandmother is still kicking it (potentially out of spite at this point, it’s hard to say), and it’s only gotten more bleak from here.

If you’re spending the holiday with an unwell loved one — this goes out to you!

Fast Socks & Forgetting

“Leave me here,” my grandmother instructed from the floor.

I held her by the armpits as she scooched onto the nearby step. Defiant, but wincing with effort the whole way.

“I’ll help you up,” I said, and she glared at me as if it was my fault she was down there.

As if I hadn’t caught her fall.

She’d only made it four steps before collapsing like a Twizzler.

This was the most physical contact I’d had with her in years.

We are not a touchy-feely family, and, despite my grandmother’s accusatory stare, we didn’t have a habit of tackling each other to the ground.

I tried to coax her up. She ignored me.

She’d rather perch on the stoop for hours than have me lift her.

Dementia will eliminate all of her motor functions before it reaches her pride.

We stayed in our deadlock while everyone else packed up lunch.

She put her head in her hands, and I stood uselessly on the deck, looking inside toward the dining room.

The table was missing a chair.

Her chair.

My grandmother always sat closest to the back door, often reaching behind herself to let out the dog.

We’d moved her seat when we got here to clean up after Honey, the yellow lab who had waited at the door until she couldn’t hold it anymore.

My grandmother either hadn’t noticed or hadn’t made it on time.

She would fill Honey’s bowl a dozen times a day, but never clued into the stench.

“I feel sick,” she said, and I did, too. 

I remembered when she used to orchestrate the entire family get-together. She would make decadent meals and buy too many desserts for our six-person family. On Christmas, she would host two dinners and a brunch.

We’d have leftovers for weeks.

While she prepped, I would run around the house sneaking treats and pestering my uncles. I sprinted around the sharp kitchen corners at full speed in socks with rubber grips.

Go-Fast Socks, we called them. 

“Go, go, go!” my grandmother cheered while putting out a shrimp ring, a cheese board, or a cookie tin. 

Possibly all three.

Definitely all on themed plates with themed napkins.

Today, we’d eaten pre-made sandwiches and monitored her intake. She could never remember if she was full and gave herself almost as many treats as she gave Honey.

“Slow down,” my grandfather had told her 10 minutes ago, “that’s enough.”

“I think I’m going to throw up,” she said, not looking up.

My mom came outside with a bucket, already knowing what lay ahead. She coaxed my grandmother through a long, violent spell of sickness while I left to pour a glass of water.

Inside, my impulse to help was immediately overshadowed by a desire to be as far away from the puke as possible. 

Guilt tugged on my gag reflex.

I stood more uselessly than before, now from the other side of the door.

It had been nicer looking into a version of the past than out at this new reality. I had no idea if my presence would be soothing or cause embarrassment.

In between wretches, my grandmother spotted me holding her water.

“When did Jamie get so tall?” she asked.

My mom and I laughed.

I haven’t grown since I was 13.

We kept smiling, but I wondered if she knew how old I was. When had I stopped aging in her mind? When will I disappear for good?

I checked my phone and laughed harder.

“Mom,” I said, “It’s time to BeReal.”

The joke carried us through the next wave of vomit. I didn’t take the picture. This wasn’t a moment I’d be able to forget anyway.

Next week, my grandmother is moving into a home.

We already know she’s going to hate it.

She did a month-long trial last year and spent the whole time complaining, crossing each day off the calendar like a prisoner on death row.

It was the most effort she’s ever put into tracking time.

If her pride isn’t the last thing to go, it will be her stubbornness.

Even puking into a bucket on the ground, she would argue that she’s fine on her own. I have no idea if she actually believes herself, or if it’s a front.

When she finally stopped heaving, my dad lifted her into the house. He narrated the technique — her arms braced around his neck, his arms under her shoulders — as if it were a normal conversation. 

“Just like a squat,” he said.  

I couldn’t see anything familiar in the motion. I could barely see anything recognizable in my grandmother, either.

Her smell has become more rancid than she’d ever allow her right mind.

Her eyes sometimes glaze over.

Her face has sprouted new hair, which my mom can only groom between walking her dog, and cleaning her house, and doing her laundry, and picking up her meds, and grabbing her groceries and, and, and, and…

What is the same is The Chair my dad puts her in.

My grandma has been willfully rotting in the same spot since before she had a diagnosis.

A version of that chair has existed since I was little. It used to be a respite. Long days of gardening, painting, or shopping all ended in The Chair. Each new day started there, too. 

When I was little, I brought all my prized possessions to The Chair. I would run up with pictures, grades, gymnastics moves, or new books for her to look at.

When I went shopping, The Chair was where the VIPs sat for my fashion show. The runway stopped at the full extension of the recliner.

“That outfit looks like grandma” was a common declaration from my mom on the nearby couch. I always took it as a compliment.

Slowly, The Chair became more and more of her day.

My mom and I moved out of my grandmother’s house when I was 14. She filled the quiet with the TV as background noise. Daytime talk shows blared as she sat in The Chair, eating, knitting, on the phone, or reading.

It morphed from a furniture piece to an entity.

As she settled back into The Chair, I noticed the same James Patterson paperback that was here during my last visit.

She’s been retracing the same few chapters over and over again. Stuck in the same place for years.

How depressing that her last book might be The President Is Missing.

My mom made up a plate of leftovers before we left. She covered it with plastic wrap and left a sticky note on top. A time stamp for when my grandmother was allowed to eat it.

“We don’t want you to get sick again,” she explained as she put the food in the fridge.

“Did I get sick?” my grandmother asked.

She grinned at me, oblivious to the whole ordeal from lunch. In her giant chair, with her frail body, she looked like the smallest thing in the world.

I wondered if that’s what she meant when she said I was tall. 

All night, I thought about her alone in The Chair.

So many hours had passed.

What if she fell again?

What if she got sick?

Would she be able to make it to bed?

Would she remember to brush her teeth?

We went back first thing in the morning, and my mom looked at me as we braced ourselves in the driveway.

This is on her mind every day. My grandfather’s, too.

“I will never let you do this for me,” she said.

I bet my grandmother would have said that, too.

Now she’s making the move to the home a nightmare. What’s worse? Knowing she’s miserable, but safe? Or knowing she’s content, but at risk?

Inside, my grandmother had miraculously made it from The Chair to bed and back again.

The dog hadn’t had to go out yet.

The leftovers were still untouched.

We exhaled.

Another day mentally crossed off the calendar.

We sat around The Chair, and my mom held up new, presentable clothes for the home in a perverted version of my childhood fashion shows.  

New pyjamas.

New undershirts.

New socks with little grips on the bottom for balance.

“Go-Fast Socks,” I said.

And the three of us laughed at a small memory we still shared.

Every year, I write a summer bucket list.

Every year, I promptly forget that list exists.

My Side Piece

Another totally normal summer bucket list

Summer is finally here…

Read more

a year ago · Jamie McCormick

I cannot be held accountable for who I was three months ago.

Moment to moment, I am reborn!

Like a nasty little mayfly.

We truly never know who is writing this newsletter, and that’s part of the fun.

But, since hoa-hoa-hoa season officially starts tomorrow, today we’ll be revisiting everything I said I would do.

My 2025 summer bucket list evaluation:

• Take a painting class ✅

  I’m giving myself this point on a technicality. There are no rules here! I am both teacher and student! If you don’t like this loosey-goosey rubric, you are in the wrong place! I signed up for an oil and acrylic class that starts next month, which 100000% counts! We all know signing up is the hardest part anyway. Now I have to go, and by December, this will be a full-fledged obsession if not a mania-induced side hustle. Stay tuned.

• Redo our shed ❌

  Rotting is cool now, anyway. Very laissez-faire. Very grunge-chic.

• Go bird watching ✅

  I didn’t go bird watching per se, but I did see birds. At what point does watching a bird transcend into ‘bird watching’ anyway? What about all the videos of budgies dancing on my newsfeed? There are simply too many unanswered questions to deny myself this point. On several occasions, I found myself saying “oh look at that one!” or “what kind of bird makes that noise?” and that feels like the right amount of entry-level interest to warrant a pass.

• Wear a tight little skirt for no other reason than to show skin ❌

  This is an upset. We were all rooting for this one. I did buy an aggressively small denim skirt from Value Village that, in the moment, felt correct. Upon reflection, there are very few moments in your thirties where a teeny tiny micro mini denim skirt can be worn nonchalantly. Or maybe I just didn’t leave my house enough. Where there’s a will, there’s a way, or whatever…

• Don’t be self-conscious while wearing said skirt ✅

  Despite my skirtless summer, this specific list item has appeared in various forms over the last few years. It harkens back to a deep insecurity about my legs, which has finally quelled to a normal-probably-still-not-healthy-but-totally-manageable level of self-criticism. A win is a win!

• Throw a hissy fit about chores ✅

  Every list needs a gimme. This was my free square.

• Do not, under any circumstances, check out the cart that I’ve built on Ardene ✅

  I don’t even remember what was in this cart, and that’s a lesson for everyone to take a few deep breaths before buying anything. Maybe go for a walk. Forget who you are. Observe a bird in a non-official bird-watching manner. Then come back and see if you still care at all (spoiler alert, you probably will not!)

• Upcycle a thrift find ✅

• My bag of scraps and “sewing” Pinterest board have reached new heights! So far I have hemmed a pair of pants (which totally counts!!), but I have far-off dreams to create more innovative and Frankenstein-ed items such as:

• Patron a local kid-owned lemonade stand ❌

  I have no excuse for this. I’ve passed several, and each time I turn my music up and cross the street like I’m avoiding a preacher at Yonge-Dundas Square. What is with that? Is it because I never have cash? Because of inflation? Do tariffs affect lemonade stands??? Is the economy so bad that I’m viewing children as money-hungry leeches??? Am I just a monster? I don’t know, but I’m deeply concerned about my behaviour. Where has my sense of whimsy gone!?!

• Move our cat from room to room so he can hang out with me all day ✅

  Another easy win.

• Push my bedtime to 11pm ✅

  She’s wild now, y’all. I don’t even get drowsy until 10:30pm. Watch out.

• Revisit my favourite children’s books ❌

  Honestly, this is a super cute thought until you’re alone at the children’s section of the library, feeling like a creep and a book hog. I’ll wait until I have kids to do this specific jog down memory lane.

• Independently republish Lorelei ❌

  Merp. I dropped the ball here. Revisiting old work is tough. Promoting is even harder. Maybe I should cut my losses and consider any remaining copies extremely limited edition????? What do you think?

• Host an outdoor movie night ❌

  Joke’s on me! I didn’t host anything! Everyone stay away!!! I’m busy hating on children and casually glancing at birds, apparently.

• Wear or give away every single dress in my closet ✅

  My donation bag is bursting! Someone please host a clothing swap before I start changing my mind and putting things back in my closet…

• Incorporate more pops of red into my wardrobe ✅

  Evidence:

• Crush my dance show ✅

  Upon seeing me perform, my mother lovingly (and correctly) referred to me as a “phone whore.” I love the camera, and the camera loves me 😘

• Lose my voice at the Kesha concert ✅

  I didn’t just lose my voice. I lost my damn mind at this show. Read more here👇

My Side Piece

Crying at the Kesha concert

Happy Sunday…

Read more

9 months ago · 5 likes · Jamie McCormick

• Go to the zoo ❌

  When I say we talked about this once a week and still have not gone….I miss the day of mandatory field trips. How do we bring that back?

• Update my Substack and website ❌

  Welp. Listen… I have a vision for this, and art takes time! I’ll get to it, I promise…

• Avoid naps at all costs ✅

  Damn straight.

• Wear a dangly belly button ring with a crop top ✅

  I am a queen, and my belly ring is my crown.

• Bake in the sun in a bright red bathing suit ✅

  A phone whore and a beach whore!

• Dust the baseboards ✅

  I am constantly thinking about 2 million things at once, and none of them have been or will ever be my baseboards. I’ve accepted this, and I’m still giving myself a point because Mark did them instead. Marriage has perks, and this is one of them! What’s mine is yours.

• Run through a sprinkler ❌

  For real, my whimsy is on death’s door! I need a real manic pixie dream girl to guide me out of this funk.

• Pick a favourite painting at the museum ❌

  Again, how do we get field trips going? Do you think we could run them like a book club? Maybe I should send a Partiful?

• Skip rocks with my husband ❌

  Damn. This would have been cute.

• Share my writing without stress and shame ❌

  Listen. This might just not be in the cards for me. Shame is just part of my whole vibe and demeanour! Time to embrace it! I am cringe, and I am NOT free! I am shackled to my own self-criticism! I write from a place of deep fear and discomfort, and that’s what makes it relatable.

• Have a karaoke night ❌

  Was really hoping this would happen organically, but now I must take matters into my own hands…

• Get my novel draft ready for beta readers this fall ✅

  I am so close. SO CLOSE! Of everything I did this summer, I’m most proud of my morning routine. I spent 30-60 minutes on this project every day before work. Has the blog suffered? Maybe! But it’s for my art, and you should all be happy for me!!!

Rapid-fire bonus points!

A few summer moments I could not have predicted, but should get extra credit for.

1. Wearing a balloon hat (okay, some whimsy is alive and well…)

2. Getting a bob. Not only is this adorable, but it’s forcing me to wash my hair more, and that’s a win for everyone.

3. Making a charm necklace

4. Renting a ridiculous ball gown for a wedding

5. Joining a book club (that does read the book!)

6. Switching shirts at a bar

7. Starting and immediately giving up on Kayla Itsines’ BBG program. You know the one. It traumatized all of us. Nostalgia gripped me in the weirdest way, and my knees suffered for it….

8. Taking a bite out of a cake. No hands. Just a straight-up chomp.

9. Being the recipient of this text:

   

10. Also this one:

    

11. Wearing a fake mustache out for two nights in a row.

12. Convincing a group of people in their thirties to try to run like a horse on all fours

13. Getting out of an upcoming work trip because I have Addison Rae tickets

14. Grappling with the mixed emotions of loving Robert Irwin, but hating the predatory older woman he brings out in me

Final grade 31/30

An above-perfect score!! Who could have predicted that???? Even with all the stuff I didn’t get to?? Crazy.

Last Thought

It’s taken me longer than usual to write this post.

I’m back on my reflective bullshit, and that takes more time and care.

Today’s post comes with a rare trigger warning. This essay contains discussions of sexual assault.

It also features 2010s fashion, which is enough to send anyone down into an anxiety spiral…

Let’s get into it!

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Kesha’s Tits Out Tour transformed me.

I openly sobbed several times.

I talked about it with my therapist.

I’ve spent two weeks dissecting all I could possibly say about this show.

And now I am coming to you, braided feather hair extension in hand, to share my musings.

I knew we were in for a ride when she came out carrying her severed head.

TiK ToK started playing as she set the tone for the show: “We do not stand abuse in my house, so middle fingers up. You know what to do.”

Without pause, the whole crowd screamed, “Wake up in the morning like fuck P Diddy.”

A moment that was somehow both empowering and hopeless.

Because she changed her own song to call out his behaviour.

Because 16,000 people affirmed those survivors’ stories at once.

Because Diddy was found not guilty of the most serious charges.

Kesha continued the set, letting us know that she’d remixed all of her music to play live. This way, we could enjoy the show without Dr. Luke profiting.

We cheered, but I was frustrated. I couldn’t reconcile that over 10 years later, her abuser’s fingers were still smudged over everything.

That was the first time I cried.

Throughout the show, I recognized that Kesha was the backdrop to my coming-of-age.

In grade 10, my best friend and I listened to her first album in the darkroom of our photography class.

We felt adult singing naughty lyrics about sex and parties, thinking one day, we too would be at a hole in the wall, a dirty free-for-all. That it would be fun and freaky and all the magical grungy things her party anthems promised.

Only it wasn’t.

The reality was scary and messy.

We got taken advantage of. Made bad decisions. Drunk cried. Chugged flavoured vodka and woke up with physical bruises and emotional wounds.

By 2014, we weren’t friends anymore.

I was in university, and Kesha’s legal battle with Dr. Luke had just begun.

As a new adult, everything started to look different.

The high school nights out that didn’t feel safe. The drunk detachment that came after. The friends who called me “the group slut” without pausing to ask how or why sex had entered my life so quickly.

With Kesha, it was so much worse.

I watched the public scrutinize every detail of her case. Girls could not write party music and be raped. As if one thing encouraged the other.

"Any reasonable person will not believe her," Dr Luke said under oath.

As #MeToo took over my newsfeed, Kesha was already a cautionary tale about speaking up. She was a caged pop star, forced to create art for the same man she accused of sexual assault, sexual harassment, and emotional abuse.

Her story made it clear that there were good victims and bad victims.

There was no space for anything in between.

You couldn’t have a reputation, a promiscuous phase, or an inconsistent story. You can’t have reached out after the fact. You couldn’t be unsure.

You must be the ideal form of a survivor unless you’d like to be doubly punished.

The Tits Out Tour revels in messy contradictions.

The show embraces being Boy Crazy and a survivor on the same stage, living out the Madonna-whore complex in real time.

Kesha shreds on guitar.

She pretends to murder a dancer in jest.

She sings an emotional ballad about forgiveness that brings the crowd (namely me) to tears.

She gets thrown around the stage in a straitjacket singing experimental music about an acid ego death, part performance art, part pop act. 1

She floats in the air with a giant halo and a prayer on the big screen.

She puts on a corset and panties to go for a joyride.

Yesterday, I listened to an Esther Perel podcast about grief.

“You need to do both. You need to deal with the trauma, and you need to engage with life.”

I’ve never seen anything accomplish this better than Kesha’s performance.

I’m in awe of the gumption it takes to tackle the industry as an independent artists after such public shaming.

The way she can simultaneously be playful and share the darkest parts of her life.

The way she can ask for attention and call out the exploitative elements of her own fame.

To call it inspirational is an understatement. I cannot believe the amount of solace I took from a show that was widely attended by drunk teenagers and men in G-strings.

I guess you never choose what will be your salvation… or what you’ll be wearing when it comes.

Part of the impact is how rare it is to see survivors celebrating.

I’m exhausted by stories of predators becoming presidents and Supreme Court judges. Friends posting videos at the Chris Brown show.2 Hockey culture existing

There is a familiar path of standing with women, only to be cut off at the knees.

Where else have you seen a survivor talking about their healing in a big, triumphant way?

No one else is throwing a party that acknowledges their sexual assault!

Rape is typically a shameful thing to forget. Healing is individual and internal.

A burden you don’t share with the world.

Something typically left for quiet self-discovery and reflection.

In university, I studied ‘great books’ and philosophy. Between keg stands, I read ancient texts obsessed with how to ‘know thyself.’

(Yes, I’m about to compare Kesha to Socrates)

Everything we learned was about living virtuously, the ultimate and universal pursuit of how to be. But ancient philosophers didn’t know what it feels like to be unsafe in their own bodies.

To have it play tricks on you.

To have it open for something that fundamentally did not want.

To not understand why you didn’t fight back.

When they talk about the ‘good’ and ‘virtue’, they aren’t considering the goodness and virtue that can be stolen.

They aren’t factoring in the definitions that are layered on top of victims. How a survivor’s identity can be twisted into knots.

They focus, instead, on output. Living a ‘good life’ means living in accordance with your role in society.

But what does that mean when you believe you are at fault?

When you’re told you’re a slut?

When someone else’s actions have defined how the world sees you?

When knowing yourself and your role also means reckoning with the terrible, awful thing that happened to you?

Recently, I’ve been seeking out philosophical theories on what sexual assault does to the self. So far, I’ve come up empty.3

What Kesha presented was the most nuanced survivor journey I’ve seen.

Within each set, she created pockets for sadness and anger. She had us explore the stages of her grief together, allowing for a huge release by the end of the show.

She cued up her last set, saying, “I’m going to put on a slutty outfit, and we’re going to celebrate my freedom.”

For her encore, she sang Praying and Cathedral, songs that speak to different parts of the healing process.

Allow me to dive into the scripture…

Praying stopped me in my tracks in 2017. This was the #MeToo anthem we all needed:

The most religious I’ve ever been was singing along to this chorus, wondering if my rapist understood the gravity of his actions.

If it would make me feel better or worse if he did.

If I could see myself as more of a victim if he co-signed on the rape.

Praying helped me recognize that it didn’t matter. It’s about forgiveness rooted in resilience and stoicism — the kind of letting go you need to move forward.

Cathedral is the internal step of this journey.

I'm the cathedral

I'm finally coming home

Oh, God, it feels good

I'm the savior, I'm the altar, I'm the Holy Ghost Every second is a new beginning

I died in the hell so I could start living again

In the cathedral

This is a song about being your own salvation. Your own peace.

It’s about finding a sanctuary within yourself and your body.

It also speaks to the violence of healing. How an older version of herself had to die so she could create a new image of herself. One that isn’t doused in the trauma.

This is something beyond self-knowledge. It’s the full destruction and rebuilding required for self-acceptance.

Together, these songs felt like finality. The culmination of a decade-long healing journey that took absolutely everything she had to give, and that she was kind enough to share as proof that there is an end.

I cried the whole way through.

I cried for her.

For all the extra work and extra time and extra tears she had to put into her career to be cleansed from what he did.

I cried for all the other survivors in the crowd.

For everyone who put themselves out there, faced public degradation and slander, only to find more pain and disappointment.

For all my friends who have similar stories.

I cried for myself.

For the tween version of myself who thought Kesha's lyrics were risqué and who didn’t know that sex could be hurtful.

For the high school friends I lost because they couldn’t comprehend what I was going through.

For all the work I’m still doing, almost 15 years later, to process it all.

I let myself cry and cry and cry.

Because I needed it.

And because smudged mascara matched my outfit.

I’m having an island summer.

And by that, of course, I mean I’ve consumed over 40 hours of Love Island USA.

That’s more time than I’ve ever spent with my husband’s extended family.

…or studying for any of my university exams.

…or shopping for our first home.

Consuming endless footage of hot people talking about nothing has soothed my soul.

It’s like I took my brain out, dusted it off, and placed it in the villa to rest on a daybed surrounded by neon signs and untouched pools.

This cast of mostly naked (and racist) singles has kept me company during work-from-home days like fish in a dentist’s waiting room: colourful, shiny, and moving around their tank aimlessly.

Do I think any of the relationships are real? Not really.

Am I invested in anyone? Only the editors, who somehow churn this chum into nightly content.

Has it inspired me to buy a bikini that I don’t need? Absolutely. And that’s what TV is all about. Selling products.

Two weeks ago, I received a targeted ad from Hot Literati for a discussion group analyzing Love Island USA through the lens of the Stanford Prison Experiment.

I have never felt more seen.

More understood.

The event was in NYC, so I sadly could not make it, but they did post the winning argument on Instagram:

Love Island is bad for society because it empowers America to become the judge, jury, and executioner over the islanders. (Similar to guards in Stanford)

Supporting evidence:

1. People don't question if they are deserving of power (guards go above and beyond) -> Jeremiah being voted off by the boys because of competition over humanity.

2. Organizer of prison experiment surprised at them taking it seriously -> American participants taking it seriously and diagnosing Huda -> Ariana had to make a disclaimer.

3. Foucault's Panopticon is an idea where prisoners/islanders sees all and all sees none. Promotes relational observation, action, and obedience. Excessive power structures removes authenticity of viewing processes of human intimacy and connection, minimizing the value you can get from it and continuing to feed the cultural move towards apathy, disconnectedness from internal self and others.

Just incredible stuff.

This is what my university degree was made for! Four years studying philosophy finally feels worth it when I can engage in discourse like this!

Friday’s episode only enhanced this argument as family members were brought into the villa. Not only did the islanders break down in a way that underscored the intensity of the two-month-long quarantine, but news from the outside world immediately swayed their opinions. These are prisoners trying to appease the estate! The ever-present eye of the American public is dictating behaviour at all turns!

More thrilling than tonight’s finale is the reintegration of the islanders into society. Does a C-list celebrity ever stop being a prisoner to the social media Panopticon?

Do any of us???

No matter what happens, I am forever grateful for the sacrifice of this season’s tributes. Panem America is only 18 seasons away from the first Quarter Quell. Who knows what fresh hell they’ll unleash then!

Alas, there is no shortage of inspiration for island torture!

There’s Temptation Island.

FBoy Island.

The Island with Bear Grylls.

And July’s newest blockbuster, Jurassic World: Rebirth.

This movie has everything:

• Hot people on an island with the looming threat of death.

• Dinosaurs!

• Vague commentary on how the wealthy abuse science for monetary gain.

• Dinosaurs in the sea!!

• Lame, overacted lines about ‘sacrifice’ and ‘family’.

• Dinosaurs on land!!

• Prominent product placement from Snickers and Altoids (but shockingly not dinosaur egg oatmeal)

• Dinosaurs in the sky!!!

What else could you ask for? Those are pretty much all of the places a dinosaur could be!!

I really think they nailed this one.

But let’s get philosophical about it. Because why the heck not?!

The Jurassic World universe hinges on a misuse of knowledge for the sake of power and greed.

Did we learn nothing from Frankenstein?!

“Seek happiness in tranquillity and avoid ambition even if it be only the apparently innocent one of distinguishing yourself in science and discoveries.”

In other words, don’t make crazy mutant dinosaurs even if you think your motivations are pure. No good can come from playing God!

The original Jurassic Park understood this deeply

“Your scientists were so preoccupied with whether or not they could that they didn't stop to think if they should.”

It also gave us the deep and intellectually probing line:

“Hold on to your butts.”

Jurassic World: Rebirth seems slightly less aware of its place in the mad-scientist torn between morality and external validation lexicon… or at least it’s less on the nose.

But! What it lacks in quotability, it makes up for in an unintentionally complex message.

Unlike reality TV shows (which are real-time sociological experiments on willing participants in exchange for money or the promise of money), Jurassic World: Rebirth can wrap everything up in a neat little bow.

The moral of the story — big pharma shouldn’t have a monopoly on potentially life-saving science — is largely rooted in Stoicism that sees virtue as the highest good. Material success is less important than living in harmony with your values and the natural order of the universe.

The film ends with the decision to sacrifice cold, hard cash for the greater good of allowing everyone to benefit from the scientific findings of their mission to Dinosaur Death Island.

The change mostly happens because the dude with all the money turns out to be mean (shocking), and everyone is traumatized by the expedition he spearheaded.

Having him die by dinosaur wasn’t enough! To quote Stoic philosopher Marcus Aurelius:

"The best revenge is to be unlike him who performed the injury."

Therefore, the perfect ending is to take knowledge (ie, power) away from the rich and put it in the hands of the public.

But does science belong with everyone? This is a pretty egalitarian view for a franchise that also explicitly touts the danger of scientific advancement in the wrong hands.

Not that I expect Jurassic World to dive into Plato-inspired political discourse about a philosopher king (especially when I imagine a vast number of dinosaur-movie fans voted for the current president…).

Maybe the next movie installment will feature incels using the open-sourced knowledge to do something heinous, and we can dive into a deeper debate about censorship and/or ethical scientific practice. Again, why the heck not?

And what about the dinosaurs!? What is their happy ending?!?

The series loosely grapples with this.

First, they are theme park attractions that seek revenge on their makers like Frankenstein’s monster. A poetic justice.

Then, they are hybrid-mutant military weapons that break free of the state’s watchful eye to live in their own surveillance-free utopia.

Now, in Jurassic World: Rebirth, we find them as endangered species who’s only value to the world is pharmaceutical advancement and eating tasty, tasty bad guys.

No one cares about them anymore. The novelty has worn off, and PETA is alarmingly nowhere to be found.

For the first few movies, there was a clear Machiavellian take that dinosaurs should be feared more than they are loved.

But maybe they should be feared and loved (or should they be afraid of how much we love them??)

Personally, I’m ready for the fourth movie in this series to bridge into the domestication of small plant-eating dinosaurs. Is it ethical? Is it a status symbol? Moreover, what does the world look like once they’ve cured heart disease???

That was some pretty deep analysis for a movie that I’m pretty sure did not pass the Bechdel test unless you count dialogue like “run” and “go” as conversation…

Thanks for coming to my lecture!

Hanging Thoughts:

Since we’re on a roll with quotes, here’s one more from Paradise Lost:

“The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven.”

My mind is its own place, and it’s curating a freak show.

Thank god I have a newsletter. I need this digital island to dump all my mental nonsense; otherwise, it would eat me alive.

Anyway, here is a list of things I almost wrote about this week.

• Justin Bieber cosplaying as Frank Ocean to make the album of the summer

• The unintentional influence of my online behaviour:

  

• Posting ennui - I feel this so so deeply.

• Britney Spears posting this captionless picture of Miley Cyrus with the comments turned off?

As always, the comment section is open for your own analysis, commentary, and theses.

Summer is finally here!

I spent last Saturday at the beach, scrolling Pinterest just like God intended.

Between the usual skinny women calling dishrags “outfits” and AI-generated slop, my feed is surging with summer 2025 lists — What to wear. What to eat. What to do.

This year, none of it feels cohesive — Flowy skirts. Tomato salads. Hikes…

We’re missing a summer theme.

Hot Girl Summer begot Barbie Summer begot Brat Summer begot… ????

We are at a crossroads.

Confused.

Directionless.

It’s June 15th, and we should already be stuffing our wardrobes with hot pink or booger green to be the best seasonal Barbie-brat we can be!

Without an official title, how will I know if I’m doing summer correctly???

Who is going to give me a grade!?!?!

Someone has to be brave enough to appoint 2025 with a name!?!

… Fine, I’ll do it.

We need something edgy.

New.

Maybe nostalgic?

Something that speaks to fun for the whole family, but also leaves room for cute party outfits.

Something for the girls.

In desperation, I turned to Google. I’m not sure that it understood the nuance of my question, but it told me that “Olivia” is the #1 ranked 2025 summer name.

Well, okay then, Olivia Summer.

I can work with that!

But which Olivia to choose? Rodrigo?? Munn??? Newton-John????

That could mean any number of summers!!

Teen rock star summer…

Stealing from the rich summer…

Succumbing to 1950s peer pressure summer…

I asked Google for more guidance. What are the traits of an Olivia? According to the AI overview:

Olivia is a high-energy, imaginative piglet who embraces a wide range of activities and experiences, all while navigating the demands of her family life.

Olivia, while sometimes brattish, is ultimately endearing due to her charm, creativity, and unwavering enthusiasm for life.

Ah. I remember this diva.

The Charli xcx of children’s books:

Olivia the pig is about saying ‘yes’ to new things.

She is booked and busy.

She is wearing micro-minis that show off her curly tail.

She is giving everyone attitude.

To quote Shakespeare, a brat by any other name would slay as hard.

Olivia is ushering in another summer of chaotic, lawless behaviour — only this time with a wholesome, kid-friendly exterior.

It’s an entire summer of I think about it all the time!

It’s brat and it’s completely different but also still brat!!

This little piggy wants to get rowdy!!!

And I’m starting the best way I know how: making a list.

My 2025 Olivia summer bucket list

1. Take a painting class

   1. Admittedly, not the wildest start to this list, but an Olivia-approved hobby:

      

2. Redo our shed

   1. The housework doesn’t just stop for the summer... This is what “navigating the demands of family life” looks like!

3. Go bird watching

   1. 365 party girl was hyperbolic, and you know it! For Olivia summer, we’re prioritizing daytime activities, too.

4. Wear a tight little skirt for no other reason than to show skin

   1. Preferably while bumping this track:

5. Don’t be self-conscious while wearing said skirt

   1. Olivia, a literal pig, is not concerned about her body. Cellulite does not phase her. She’s in her tiny tutus, serving poses. She’s demanding that her mom take her picture. She’s free.

6. Throw a hissy fit about chores

   1. Nice to cross something off the list early.

7. Do not, under any circumstances, check out the cart that I’ve built on Ardene

   1. Olivia would never be a slave to the fast fashion machine, nor would she have access to a credit card…

8. Upcycle a thrift find

   1. This is like adult dress-up! It’s also a great alternative to my online shopping temptation...

9. Patron a local kid-owned lemonade stand

   1. A reminder to support local, small businesses (even if they directly oppose child labour laws)!

10. Move our cat from room to room so he can hang out with me all day

    1. Another easy win

       

11. Push my bedtime to 11pm

    1. The ultimate Olivia task, and an ongoing mental fight with myself

12. Revisit my favourite children’s books

    1. For the nostalgia and inspiration.

13. Independently republish Lorelei

    1. The best way to honour a children’s book diva is by unleashing another one into the universe.

14. Host an outdoor movie night

    1. But like an edgy, cool movie. Something pg 13 at least.

15. Wear or give away every single dress in my closet

    1. Lots to learn from this approach to building outfits:

       

16. Incorporate more pops of red into my wardrobe

    1. Self explanatory

17. Crush my dance show

    1. No tutus, sadly, but lots of brat-adjacent strutting. (Come watch me perform!)

18. Lose my voice at the Kesha concert

    1. This is practically a guarantee and another excuse to celebrate an icon from my childhood. Fellow Animals, where you at?

19. Go to the zoo

    1. Real animals, where you at?

20. Update my Substack and website

    1. I’ve been procrastinating this all year, but Olivia is all about creative reinvention

       

21. Avoid naps at all costs

    1. Anyone who knows me knows I’m anti-nap, and Olivia gets it. They make me groggy!! They mess with my regular sleep!!! You can’t tell me what to do!!!

22. Wear a dangly belly button ring with a crop top

    1. The modern-day princess crown

23. Bake in the sun in a bright red bathing suit

    1. Slut alert!

       

24. Dust the baseboards

    1. The demands of family life are ever-present.

25. Run through a sprinkler

    1. How quirky and cute! The ultimate activity for kids and manic pixie dream girls.

26. Pick a favourite painting at the museum.

    

27. Skip rocks with my husband

    1. This one is just nice, wholesome, family time.

28. Share my writing without stress and shame

    1. Self-promotion is a core pillar of Olivia-ness, and one that I need to work on…

       

29. Have a karaoke night

    1. Also self-explanatory

30. Get my novel draft ready for beta readers this fall

    1. Gah! Last year, my goal was 50,000 words. Today I’m at 75,000 and deep in the pits of revision hell…If you want to be one of my first readers, sound off in the comments.

If you got this far, you are now my accountability buddy. Surprise!

I am literally begging for someone to please just grade me on something. Help me live my dream of being an A student forever!

I’ll even cut you a deal!!

Let me know what’s on your list, and we can keep each other honest. Maybe we can even cross a few items off together.

Teamwork makes the dream work, amiright?!?!

Last Thought

Brat summer never ended for this icon 💚

Happy May long weekend!

I’m writing from a patio set that smells faintly like wet dirt.

Or maybe that’s just the smell of the outside.

I don’t remember!

Ontario winters are engineered to obliterate any and all memories of the sun.

Spring is a mental rebirth.

Above-zero weather washes away our collective seasonal depression and tries to convince me to go jogging because it’s so nice out, and why the heck not, everyone else loves it, don’t be lazy, this is what people in their thirties do! 1

Every year, there’s also a moment when I remember bugs exist.

Right now, I’m sharing the space with approximately 30,000 spiders who took shelter in our outdoor furniture.

It’s taking everything in me to remind myself that they are harmless.

They’re amazing even!

Spiders are essential for the environment!

They’re mosquito abolitionists!!!

My political sisters!!!

Besides all the legs, eyes, and quick movements, what’s not to love?

It’s basically like having a bunch of free pets!

They most definitely didn’t lay eggs anywhere near, in, or on these cushions!! No way!

I feel bad because I displaced a bunch of them to come tan outside.

I’m sure they’re used to this kind of bigotry.

If the Itsy Bitsy Spider taught me anything, it’s the nomadic nature of spiders.

They are always climbing in and out of water spouts. Being ushered out of homes and off ceilings. Lurking in sheds across the nation.

I once read an essay about the Itsy Bitsy Spider as a Sisyphean figure that has stayed with me.

The spider is stuck in an endless loop going up and down and up and down and up and down the water spout.

He is trapped in an eternity of tedium and waterboarding.

But whose life isn’t tedious?

Who among us is not pushing their own proverbial boulder up a hill? Climbing and reclimbing the same water spout ad nauseam??

How are there always dishes to do?

Why is the laundry never clean???

Surely there can’t always be something else to write?!?!

What do you mean I have to shave my legs, again?!?!?!

At what point do we ever actually consume enough protein??!?!

Eventually, the Itsy Bitsy Spider must be allowed to rest!

He must move to a home that isn’t a functional faucet!

He must find peace or a deeper meaning for this madness!

How could anybody continue to be rained out over and over and over again??

To quote a famous philosopher:

Let the rain fall down
And wake my dreams
Let it wash away
My sanity
'Cause I want to feel the thunder
I wanna scream
Let the rain fall down
I'm coming clean

Powerful stuff.

For the Itsy Bitsy Spider, maybe every rainfall is a fresh start.

Maybe he embraces the rain as part of life.

Maybe he yearns for the release of a clean slate.

A rebirth.

Who knows how much of the experience he even remembers?

Based on what I Googled about long-term memory in common house spiders, likely very little, if anything at all.

The Itsy Bitsy Spider experiences every adventure up or down the spout as his first time, like Drew Barrymore in 50 First Dates.

Or… like me coming out of hibernation every May long weekend.

Each spring, I change over my wardrobe, set up the backyard, and prepare myself for a new summer season without even considering the impending doom of winter.

Why dwell on the inevitable?

Another great philosopher once said:

Always gonna be an uphill battle
Sometimes I'm gonna have to lose
Ain't about how fast I get there
Ain't about what's waiting on the other side
It's the climb

There is something to be treasured in the mundane.

Tallying grams of protein gives me a small sense of accomplishment.

When the dishes are done, I feel at peace with our space.

I wake up on Sundays full of inspiration (and some dread) about writing something bonkers for your inboxes.

In his endless pursuit, we must imagine the Itsy Bitsy Spider happy.2

Or else what keeps him moving?

How does this tiny spider find the will to pick himself back up over and over and over again?

Is he bound by duty?

Pride?

Or is it unrelenting optimism that keeps him moving back up the water spout?

What keeps us doing the dishes?

Folding the laundry??

Working on our hobbies???

Shaving???

Counting protein????

Do we act purely because of the shackles of expectation? (I am a spider, therefore I climb / I am a woman, therefore I need hairless legs.)

Or are we driven by the aspirational ideal of having a clean house, nice wardrobe, soft legs, and semi-noticeable muscle tone? (The best spiders live in water spouts, and I will push myself to greatness.)

Because happiness is not a fixed state.

No matter how fulfilling it is to climb a water spout 15,000 times, the 15,001st might break us. One day, there will be a dirty dish that brings us to the brink of sanity.

How do we know when our repeated cycles are part of a greater good, and when they need to be abandoned?

I have seen the edges of my breaking point.

I have entertained giving up.

I have looked at my water spout and thought, “I’m okay, thank you. This has been a good run, but if it rains one more damn time I will let myself drown.”

There are only so many grams of protein I can consume in a day without straight-up snorting powder.

There is no amount of protein pancakes, or protein bars, or protein popcorn, or protein chips I can force myself to eat without questioning my whole existence.

Does that make me less committed than the Itsy Bitsy Spider? Probably.

There is a phenomenon in Australia called Mass Ballooning.

(spoiler alert, this is still about spiders and not real balloons)

After heavy rains, millions of spiders will seek higher ground to save themselves from drowning. They release their webs into the air to catch a breeze to safety, floating through the air like Shen Yun dancers descending on a new market.

Eventually, they rain down in a giant blanket of webs straight out of a horror novel.

Look at how yucky!

But also, how hopeful!

This spider rain is a story of resilience: of a cohort of itsy bitsy buddies refusing to be washed down their water spouts over and over again.

These spiders were, quite literally, hanging on by a thread.

It took one brave soul to say, “You know what, guys? This is too much,” and throw a silken white flag into the air.

Together, they let the wind carry them away.

That’s beautiful.

Inspiring.

A reminder that it’s never too late to start over, fly somewhere new, and wreak havoc on unsuspecting farmland with your grand, gothic entrance.

When and how do we free ourselves from the cycles driving us to insanity?

What is the final rainfall that sets us on a new path?

When times are bad, how do we spin our own webs into the sky and untether ourselves from the shackles of daily life?

…Of course, spider webs are almost entirely made out of protein.

Gotcha!!

Counting protein is an endless hellscape!!!

You will NEVER be free!!!

Anyway…..

Someone buy me this necklace plz and thx 😘

Happy The White Lotus Finale Day to all those who celebrate!

My Sundays have vastly improved by watching those three white women gossip under the looming threat of monkeys, guns, and Parker Posey’s accent.

To honour the end of season 3, I’m here to rehash everyone’s favorite storyline: the brotherly handjob.

That’s right!

We’ve finally pivoted this newsletter away from rats and eels only to land on incest.

I am who I am.

Whether or not you’re watching the show, you’ve likely heard about this season’s sibling drama.

In short, two brothers did some hand stuff during a threesome on their family vacation.

The scandal! The indecency!

For a couple of weeks, I’ve let the online commentary slide.

I’ve seen memes, think pieces, and social deep dives all talking about how depraved the show is. Everyone wants to scream from the rooftops that they, too, found the whole incest plot super duper yucky.

And you know what? I call bullshit.

You weren’t disgusted because they were siblings.

You were disgusted because they were men.

I know, I know, I know.

I can feel you protesting through the screen.

But JAMIE! Incest is BAD!! Who even CARES that they’re men?!? It’s disgusting because they’re BROTHERS!!!!

I hear you, and I agree.

We’ve just never seemed to care about incest before?

Everyone remembers Game of Thrones, but let me re-introduce you to twins Fook Mi and Fook Yu of Austin Powers fame.

Ya.

Remember this?

Puts that little White Lotus handy into perspective, doesn’t it?

Hot sisters — specifically twins — are objectified constantly. For some reason, this type of incest is allowed.

Nay! It’s encouraged!

Sexy twincest has been played as the ultimate male fantasy for decades. The trope was commonplace and palatable enough for 1980s Doublemint gum ads: “A double pleasure is waiting for you.”

But why stop with comedies and commercials when you can fetishize real-life twins????

Lest we forget The Girls Next Door - a reality show about Hugh Hefner’s girlfriends, featuring then 18-year-old twins Kristina and Karissa Shannon.

There’s not enough Lorazepam in the world for me to forget all of the 18th birthday countdown clock websites that sprung up for the Olsen twins.

As recently as 2020, Jessica and Eve Gale were cast as Love Island contestants, and every man lost his damn mind over the potential of getting with twins.

Those weren’t HBO shows.

Those were real dudes wanting to have sex with real twins.

And none of y’all said shit! Everyone accepts that it’s totally normal for men to be yearning for an incestuous threesome.

If the White Lotus scene was made with sisters, everyone would have loved it. We would have seen a surge in people re-watching Cruel Intentions 2. People would have made Challengers-inspired memes about how lucky that dude was. The episode would have been touted as masterful and risqué storytelling.

But god forbid a woman objectifies two brothers!

These fictional characters get a little freaky, and suddenly we’re all stressed and offended about incest???

Grow up!

I think you’re all liars anyway.

There. I said it.

I’m so sorry that I’m about to make this argument, but who among us was not thirsting after both Supernatural brothers???

Look me dead in the eyes and tell me that you wouldn’t.

I dare you.

If you’re not into it, there’s an entire fan fic community that is. They’ve taken this fantasy so far that they’ve coined the term ‘Wincest’ (yikes).

The point is that The White Lotus is far from the only outlet talking about incest. It’s not glorifying sex with siblings the way every other example I’ve pulled for this article does…

In that respect, it’s somewhat progressive (ie, filled with complicated emotions, regret, and discomfort). Especially when compared to the surge of ‘fauxcest’ porn available.

If anything is a mirror for humanity, it probably (and depressingly) is Pornhub.

One quick glance at the home page has enough ‘step-sibling’ videos to make it loud and clear that some of y’all doth protest too much over that one scene.

According to Pornhub’s 2024 year in review (which is one of the most fascinating articles I’ve ever read) “Step Mom” is the 11th most searched term.

Is this not more unsettling than the episode???

Not to yuck anyone’s yum, but like????

Why are we so mad about The White Lotus when the general population is wanking it simulated incest????

Interestingly, ‘fauxcest’ is more popular in conservative states. The more sexually repressed people are, the more they need to up the ante with extreme and taboo content.

So…

I guess what I’m really saying is…

Welcome to Trump’s America!

The worse it gets politically, the worse it will get incestuously.

These must be the old-fashioned family values everyone talks about.

Right?!?!

Just something else to look forward to as we catapult toward the collapse of society…

Anyway! I’m looking forward to tonight’s finale and can’t wait to see what happens between these brothers. According to The White Lotus creator Mike White,

“I don’t want to write identity coming-of-age stories. I’m not interested in someone coming out,” he added. “I like something that feels kind of naughty, which is the opposite of that. I also want to make the wider audience complicit in those stories so that they’re suddenly going down this wormhole with me.”

Touché, Mike.

We’re deep in the mud with you, that’s for sure.

Last Thought

The crossover meme I needed.

Hanging Questions

• Are you watching tonight??!

• Any fan theories?

• Anyone else as obsessed with Walton Goggins as I am???

Squeak, squeak, squeak, my little freaks!

I am — once again — sending an email about rats.

Nothing compels me to write more than an unusual creature exhibiting an unusual behaviour.

Despite this newsletter’s sexy branding, this is and will forever be a space for me to talk about rodents, bugs, and eels.

aka: Your Sunday morning Vermin Sermon…

ANYWAY

Last month, scientists discovered that rats can distinguish between two white wine varieties.

Nine rats — Badger, Darren, Edison, Hero, Lionel, Peanuts, Shrodinger, Shaun, and Thomas — were tasked with sniffing the difference between Riesling and Sauvignon Blanc samples in exchange for tasty, tasty treats.

Saldy, Peanuts could not figure it the f*ck out.

But! Everyone else took to the white wine like a bachelorette party in Prince Edward County.

Better, even!

Because they actually could tell the difference between the wine and no one cried, drunk texted an ex, fell off a bike, or started passive-aggressively posting in the group chat over the Splitwise costs…

I personally cannot stop thinking about the experiment setup:

They built a tiny, personalized Costco sampling station for rats!

He’s in a miniature, one-rat-only gelato shop, testing all the flavours!

The lazy Susan drive-through window is a masterpiece to behold. What ingenuity! What craftsmanship!

And for what??

What do we gain from teaching rodents about wine tasting?

Is there a practical use case for this?

Can they be employed by the LCBO?

Are we starting a new rodent-focused entity for booze control? The Liquor Creature Board of Ontario???

This mystery has led me to a new Sunday morning Google search low:

According to the study, the rats’ ability to distinguish between the wines proves they can conceptualize and categorize without language.

Science has traditionally assumed that our communication allows us to draw distinctions that non-linguistic creatures cannot.

Example: You can spend a bunch of money and a bunch of time learning how to sniff out wine varietals from someone who has already spent a bunch of money and a bunch of time distilling this skill.

The rats — by contrast — figured this out in isolation.

Besides that idiot, Peanuts, they could reliably classify the wine within 20s of smelling each sample.

So the lesson is: Most people are no better at wine tasting than the average rat.

Something to consider the next time you order a bottle for the table….

Well… That’s all for this week!

As much as I would love to continue giggling in your inbox about various creatures (did you hear about the Worm Blood Moon this week???), I have a ton of work to do for my real job.

….Not that this newsletter isn’t real, but it’s surely not paying the bills…

SO! Sugar Mama has to venture into the deep, dark mines of Salesforce to keep this hobby afloat.

Despite all my rage, I am still just a rat in a (corporate) cage:

Sending a virtual cheers to all of you! With a rat-approved Reisling, of course.

Last thought:

Me sending out this newsletter while my work inbox overflows:

The day has come.

For months, I’ve been increasing the font size of my Kobo in a way that screams “This woman is no longer in the prime of her youth,” or “Read over this old hag’s shoulder.”

Now, 3 months after my thirtieth birthday, I am buying my first pair of reading glasses.

Practically a death sentence.

A reminder that none of us are immune to the cruel and unrelenting passage of time.

We all must keep swimming toward inevitable doom...

…Just like the black seadevil anglerfish captured on video near the ocean’s surface.

That’s right! I am, yet again, here to tell you about a strange creature.

Move over, drug-thieving rats!

Step aside, orcas wearing dead salmon hats!

Get outta here, basement full of eels!

Not now, iguanas who hate women!1 (iykyk)

Today’s newsletter is an homage — nay, a shrine — to the little anglerfish that could.

Last week a female anglerfish (the ones with the lure that lights up) swam over 15,000 feet from the deep to die in the shallows.

Scientists aren’t sure why, but the best guess is that she was sick, injured, or ate a fish filled with so much gas that she floated to the top (humiliating).

I should mention that this fish was tiny.

Based on my extensive research of Finding Nemo, I assumed anglerfish were cat-sized. I pictured them like really scary loaves of bread at the bottom of the ocean.

In reality, they are less than 7 inches long.

Picture the world’s ugliest hamster with a reading light stuck to its head. That’s what we’re working with, here!

It would have taken so long for her to emerge from the pitch-black abyss and into the sunlight. I cannot stop imagining her swimming up and up and up with her teeny weenie little fins.

The determination!

The effort!!

She is the Terry Fox of fish!!!

Naturally, her story has taken the internet by storm. Just look at this fan art that I may or may not have already purchased as prints for my home (sorry, Mark):

Are you kidding me right now?

This is the most emotional image I have ever seen. The video version with music is even more gut-wrenching.

I simply cannot cope.

I have extensively cried over this fish in ways my therapist will most definitely have follow-up questions about.

If the image wasn’t enough, come sob with me through the comment section:

This has me inconsolable.

I don’t even think there’s an afterlife, but the thought of Steve Irwin greeting this butt-ugly fish like she’s the most stunning creature he’s ever seen in heaven is enough to make me a believer.

Are y’all moved by this story, too?

Or am I having a breakdown???

Because I am literally looking up relevant Oscar Wilde quotes about this fish:

"Never regret thy fall, O Icarus of the fearless flight, For the greatest tragedy of them all, Is never to feel the burning light.”

Tell me this isn’t the most devastating thing you’ve ever read!

Fish-carus, I love you.

I am bracing for the worst person I know to co-opt this story for a LinkedIn post about Atomic Habits or the power of automated prospecting for B2B software sales.

LinkedIn influencers cannot help themselves.

They are bottom feeders.

They will take everything and turn it into inspiration to grind harder.

You’ll see this tiny fish’s journey saddled next to hashtags like #motivationMonday and #smallstepsbigimpact

I see it coming, and I’m here to beat them to the punch:

Writing can feel like an endless swim.

The mountain of a book project is overwhelming, and the prospect of building an audience is deeply uncomfortable.

I clickity clack clickity clack clack clack on these keys every week without always knowing the point.

…Today, a newsletter no one reads.

…Tomorrow, a few hundred words for the novel that’s consumed me for years.

…This week, 30,000 follow-up emails that my clients ignore.

…Next weekend, a typo correction on the newsletter that a few of you did actually read but couldn’t enjoy because I made a thousand mistakes.

I am but a tiny anglerfish, beating my little fins on my keyboard until death.

It’s easy — too easy — to be intimidated by the amount of amazing writing that already exists.

There is a vast ocean of words.

Better words than my words.

The best words ever written!

And also, a lot of bad ones! But with larger and brighter marketing budgets to lure fish away from ever finding my writing, anyway.

How could I ever expect to write something of value when we are drowning in pages and pages and pages of other people’s work?!?

Luckily I have new reading glasses to help me focus on what’s in front of my face! (Bet you didn’t see that full-circle moment coming)

Between this new prescription and my existing one for distance, every day I can choose: Do I want to look far ahead? Or examine what’s immediately up next?

Should I dwell on the size of the ocean? Or just keep swimming / hustling / grinding / LinkedIn-fluencing until the pressure kills me?

I like to scroll Pinterest for inspiration when I hit a snag with my writing.

My home feed is like an EEG of all the ideas swirling through my brain. In rapid succession, I’ll scroll past:

…An offensive baby tee

…The top 34 “healthy” protein cookie recipes

…SALE ALERT! Your previously Pinned serving dish in the shape slug is now 15% off

…A Patrick Bateman meme about dissociating covered in heart emojis

…12 oil paintings of rotting garbage.

…A mid-century modern colour palette

This algorithm has spent decades figuring me out. Each pin is like a dot in a pointillist painting. Together, they create a portrait that is both fascinating and concerning.

Whether you see it close up or far away, it’s still the portrait of an insane woman.

The variety reminds me that I have more interests than just writing (ie: slug-shaped ceramics). My current projects are two deep seas in a world of obscure obsessions.

They are 2 To-Dos in a much longer list that keeps me moving forward and evolving my creative process.

When I focus on the tasks in front of me today…

• Finish this article ✅

• Dance rehearsal for my show in July ✅

• Squeak in a few words for my book project

• Clean the house

…It’s easy to forget what those same tasks become with my distance lenses on. 5 years ago…

• This newsletter didn’t exist

• I had just started dancing

• Writing a book was pipedream

• Owning a home seemed impossible

I have to hope that, up ahead, there’s a blazing light waiting.

One that’s brighter than I’ve ever dared to wish for.

Not to rope Celine Dion into another ocean-based tear-jerker, BUT… Near, far, wherever you are on your swim, I hope this tiny anglerfish can serve as a beacon of inspiration for you, too.

Also, book an eye exam!

You’re probably due.

Last thought:

A quick list for your TBR

I’ve been mortified over a spelling mistake in last week’s post. Did you catch it?

Either way, this is your reminder that all typos are intentional. How else will I know if you’re paying attention?

Joke’s on me!

An earlier version of this post referred to Linguini’s character as Luigi. Why? Because I have a terrible memory and no fact-checker (except all of you, obviously)

Will I ever publish something without a major error???? Find out in real time👇

Subscribe now

What a week we’ve had:

A dystopian inauguration featuring Nazi salutes and The Handmaid’s Tale costume nods.

Rumours that Obama is sleeping with Jennifer Anniston.

Challengers Oscar snubs.

A polar vortex that froze our pipes on Tuesday night.

When will we catch a break?!

Surely not anytime soon — it’s January after all.

I’m looking forward to the rest of winter like I’m Melania in that stupid hat (ie: not at all).

Some potentially good news

Drug-addicted rats are destroying police evidence in Houston.

This is either another Euphoria-like depiction of how drugs are ruining communities …OR…an unintentional but undeniably cool vigilante justice campaign to decriminalize weed.

I’m choosing the side of optimism, mostly because this quote from the mayor made me laugh, "We got 400,000 pounds of marijuana in storage that the rats are the only ones enjoying."

Pixar where are you!?!

This is the edgy, hard-hitting Ratatouille sequel we need!

Imagine…

It’s 2025, and Remy and Linguini’s restaurant has fallen on hard times.

Not only did they lose money during COVID, but rats are (once again) stigmatized because of their proximity to plagues.

Remy had to lay off his family, who — if you remember — were known for being thieves.

To make ends meet, they get caught up dealing narcotics.

Why wouldn’t they when they have easy access to the police’s evidence supply through the sewer system?

Meanwhile, Linguini and Remy fell out during the pandemic.

It was too intense quarantining together, and Colette’s pregnancy was pulling Linguini’s focus away from cooking.

Forced to move back in with his parents, Remy finds a new passion for making gourmet edibles.

At first, it’s a win-win-win. Remy is supporting his rat colony and moving on from his friendship with Linguini. Plus, all the tampered evidence helps dealers get acquitted on bullshit weed charges.

BUT! When they accidentally contaminate the evidence in a high-profile case, Remy ends up on death row for a series of murders he didn’t commit.

Now it’s up to the rats to pull off their biggest heist yet: breaking Remy out of prison — something they’ll only be able to do if they can convince Linguini to help.

Can they exonerate Remy before he’s exterminated? And, who is really behind the murders? Find out in Rata2ouille:

The Pot is Boiling.

…Apparently, I missed my calling writing fan fic, because that synopsis goes hard…

Anyway! Speaking of drug-addicted rats fan fiction, I went to a midnight Onyx Storm release party on Monday.

It was a wholesome night filled with adult women (and one man, clearly brought by a woman) counting down to a smutty book about dragon riders.

AKA the hippest party in town.

What the night lacked in cool factor, it made up for in nostalgia.

You will not be shocked that I attended many fantasy releases as a kid.

I went to a Harry Potter launch dressed as Hedwig.

…To one of the movies dressed as Fawkes.

…To another dressed as a prisoner of Azkaban.

…To the Breaking Dawn release dressed as a yearning tween.

At that particular event, I insisted we show up early to be at the front of the line.

I was so desperate to be the first person with a copy that, when the clock struck midnight, I ran — genuinely ran — to the first available cashier.

When I went to pay, my idiot, nerdy, loser hands shook so much that I spilled change all over the floor.

The horror! The embarrassment!

I left the store distressed, only to find my friend mid-interview with a local news outlet because she was the first to purchase the book.

I have never recovered.

Considering the unbridled obsession I had with YA fantasy, it’s shocking that I never discovered fan fiction.

I was too naive and too innocent to venture to Wattpad.

Instead, I subjected my friends to heated debates over my personal fan casts, theories, book playlists, and — yes I’ll admit it — merch designs I drew myself.

I voiced my fandom with my whole chest.

They say your 30s are for rediscovering what you loved as a child. (Who says this? I’m not sure, but I saw one woman post about it on TikTok, and it felt legit).

So welcome to a new era!

I turned thirty exactly two months ago, and I’m ready to be insufferable about books again.

More release parties!

More dressing up!

Maybe it’s finally time to dive into the fan fiction I should have steeped myself in as a tween, starting with Rata2ouille.

Before you get weird about it, not all fan fiction is sexual. Rata2ouille is pg 13 at worst.

Would it still count as healing my inner child if porn writing is involved?? Who knows! These are the important questions this blog is all about!!

I have one more important question for any Fourth Wing fans reading this blog:

What the fuck is this?

This mug was in the release party swag bag, and it has shaken me to my core.

At no point in the first two books has a dragon been presented as sexy.

One is an old man.

The other is a teenager.

Not to kink shame, but what on earth is happening here?

If you see the appeal, please enlighten me!

One completely unrelated thought to help you through these hard times:

@rupaulofficial @rupaulofficial ♬ original sound - RuPaul

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Hanging questions:

• Are you reading Onyx Storm?

• What are you rediscovering from your childhood?

• Do you think my Rata2ouille plot has legs?

• What fan fiction should I read?

Happy Sunday!

I’m popping into your inbox one last time before the holidays to address something near and dear to my heart: Orcas wearing dead salmon hats.

‘Tis the season, after all.

Behold Blackberry, your new fave influencer.

He is a risk taker.

A trendsetter.

An all-around silly little ginormous guy.

If you weren’t aware, Blackberry is single-handedly (fin-dedly?) bringing back a fashion statement not seen since 1987 when a whale pod started draping dead fish across their foreheads.

aka the aquatic mammal equivalent of the ‘A Flock Of Seagulls’ haircut.

Scientists aren’t sure what sparked the craze in the 80s. They are even less sure about its resurgence.

At 32, Blackberry wasn’t alive to witness the original hat fad.

There is no ‘Life in Looks‘ archive for the orca population (as far as we know).

2023’s sardine-core likely did not make it into the ocean zeitgeist.

And yet!

There he is in all his dead-salmon-hat-wearing glory.

Several other whale trends have come and gone over the years:

• Shooting kelp out of the water (cute)

• More dead salmon, but over fins (less impactful, imo)

• Sinking boats (remember that headline from the spring!??)

There’s speculation that these behaviours are socialization tactics. When whales have a surplus of fish, they become more playful.

This is Maslow’s hierarchy of needs in action.

The less there is to do, the more time is left to don carcasses or capsize boats for sport.

First comes safety.

Then comes trend-setting.

But what does it mean?

Oh, okay. I see.

You think this has nothing to do with you.

You… go to your closet, and you select… I don’t know, that lumpy blue sweater, for instance, because you’re trying to tell the world that you take yourself too seriously to care about what you put on your back, but what you don’t know is that that sweater is not just blue, it’s not turquoise, it’s not lapis, it’s actually cerulean…

Or, in this case, salmon.

A color/fish/state of mind pre-selected by the designers, shoppers, algorithms, and (apparently) whales that control the industry.

Blackberry is not an innovator, but a cog in the much larger trend cycle machine.

Today it’s hats, but who knows what tomorrow’s beauty standards will bring.

Blowhole jewelry?

Seashell grills?

The goalpost moves as quickly as brands can invent new qualities to be insecure about (see also: butthole bleaching, blephs, Moo Deng makeup etc, etc etc.)

Each of us is Sisyphus, pushing our desire to be attractive up the insurmountable hill of public approval, already forgetting how in vogue it was to drown sailors in May or what the hell “Mob Wife Aesthetic” was in January.

Just when we figure it out — hit the summit on “Clean Girl” or “Eclectic Grandpa” — a whale with a dead fish on his head lets us know we are behind the times.

The trend cycle has caught us in its undertow, and we are waterboarded with the harsh reality that you are never safe.

A 20 to 30-year-old fashion trend will always come back the second you get comfortable.

Like zombie Cillian Murphy in ‘28 Years Later.’

These cycles aren’t limited to fashion.

The 1980s are back with a vengeance — not just with killer whales, but killers in general.

Luigi Mangione, the assassin turned internet heartthrob, is our social media salmon hat.

Sifting through the hordes of fan edit videos and “I can fix him” tweets calls to mind another infamous criminal.

One with groupies known to send letters with nude photos and marriage proposals.

One who had women coming to his trial with dyed brown hair to look more like his victims.

One who was recently portrayed by Zac Efron, igniting a whole new generation of online admirers over 30 years after his death.

I’m talking, of course, about Ted Bundy.

I know, I know, I know.

Luigi Mangione is different.

He’s the people’s murderer.

A vigilante hero.

His online footprint has shown us that he reads books, listens to Charli xcx, is possibly bi-sexual, and is undeniably shredded.

His notoriety has yielded incredible memes such as:

And

@adamlicious666I heard he’s a charli fan,, so this one’s for him 💚 #sci #huntingdon #luigi #charlixcx #apple

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And wild compilations like these:

As jazzed as I am that Criminal by Britney Spears is getting more air time, I am morally conflicted.

This man murdered a 50-year-old father of two.

According to the internet, that only makes him more attractive.

Y’all know I am never one to censor a meme, but I am continually shocked that hybristophilia routinely comes back in fashion.

It may even be more powerful than lycra….

But it’s definitely less powerful than the trend cycle!

By next week the whales will be hatless and we’ll be on to something new:

Maybe (hopefully) another Justin Timberlake tour cancellation.

More likely, the newest plastic surgery to make your full-coverage-no-makeup-makeup look even more natural.

Or the most unrelatable nepo baby Christmas hauls.

Or, worse yet, the “Jay-Z as loving father” media arc built to distract from the child rape allegations. (As a reminder, his alleged victim was 13 and his daughter is currently 12).

ANYWAY!!!!

We might live in a hellscape designed by beauty industry marketing budgets and teenage-run TikTok accounts, but I am so thankful to giggle about it with all of you.

See Sea you after Christmas!

I know, I know, I know…

I’m supposed to be taking a break for National Novel Writing Month.

But did you really believe I could stay away?

Today, I’m slipping out of hiatus to review these flavored lubes from Mochi Melt.

A slight departure from your regularly scheduled programming, but stay with me!

Mochi Melt was kind enough to send me some products, which is simultaneously flattering and nerve-wracking.

Flattering because I’d love to support their brand.

Scary because my mom, dad, mother-in-law, and some colleagues read this Substack…

I write a lot about sexual health, but I very rarely share details about my actual sex life (at least not since the MailChimp days —shoutout to the real ones).

As you may have gleaned from past essays about trauma therapy, sex isn’t always easy for me.

Sometimes it’s downright impossible.

So, I have a soft spot for any company trying to make intimacy easier (or tastier).

This post is your reminder that sexual health is part of overall health, pleasure is important, and I love trying free stuff.

Here are five reasons why you should support Mochi Melt:

1. The product is edible and genuinely delicious. I’m not bullshitting you on this. I don’t know how they did it. There’s not even a hint of an aftertaste! You might as well be licking a honeydew!!! These have changed my entire perspective on what lube can be🍈

2. The branding is A+

   From the packaging….

   To the jokes….

   

   I am a fan.

3. They care about elevating sexual experiences and breaking taboos. Check out this blog post from their website (and add a few items to cart while you’re there)

4. It’s female-founded and Toronto-based. I love this candid video about being an entrepreneur in the sexual wellness space. This is a must-watch 👇

   

ANYWAY.

I am back on hiatus now.

For real this time…

I’ll see y’all in December.

I come to you, eyes cast down, sweating, nervous.

For the first time in four years, I skipped two (!!!) blog posts in a row.

I had no reason.

No excuse.

I didn’t let anyone know.

I didn’t even panic post about it on Instagram.

Instead, I quietly and unceremoniously left my laptop shut.

And it was glorious….

…At least mostly.

The world didn’t end.

No one questioned me.

I only spent a few hours imagining all of you sobbing by your inboxes wondering where your sweet Sunday companion had gone…

That’s just the kind of chill, totally relaxed, cool girl I am.

Now it’s time to face the music: I’ve been cheating on this blog.

I know, I know. How could I?

…It’s not like it’s in the name of the Substack or anything…

Between my regular 9-5, freelance projects, Preptober, and an undying commitment to my true art (crafting Halloween costumes) my time has been divided.

I know everything I publish reads like a rambling fever dream, but these messy posts take work.

I slave over the obscure references, memes, and sentence fragments that litter these emails. All these typos aren’t going to write themselves!

And — as much as I love spending my Sunday mornings word-vomiting about toilet seats, worms, and my trauma therapy experience — your girl needed a breather.

TLDR: It’s not you, it’s me.

What’s Preptober?

I’m so glad you caught that very subtle, not-planted-at-all term.

I am once again participating in National Novel Writing Month this November.

From the 1st-30th, writers strive to hit 50,000 words on their works in progress. Preptober is — you guessed it — the month everyone spends prepping.

In 2022 I went into my first #NaNoWriMo blind.

No thoughts.

No ideas.

200 pages of pure vibes.

I hit my word count through sheer insanity and grit — a goal tainted by actually reading the pile of hot garbage I had written….

This year I’m not f*cking around.

Since January, I’ve been prepping and revamping my idea. I’ve enlisted the help of:

• Sticky notes

• Whiteboards

• Virtual workshops

• Accountability groups

• Writing challenges

• Story structure guides

• Inspiration walks

• Mood-setting playlists

• An unsanctioned tour through my old university building….

Basically, I’ve exhausted all the classic “writing a book in a movie montage” tricks:

Now I’m about to dive into my third novel draft, and I’m still not ready(eek!)

200 pages in one month is crazy.

Writing a book is hard!

Like really really really hard!!

Like ‘why did I even want to do this in the first place?” hard!!!!

But, for reasons unknown, I feel the need to keep going.

Sadly, that means I need more time away from Substack.

Today’s post is a PSA and a plea:

1. My Side Piece will be on hiatus until December

2. Please pray for me next month

Look - I don’t like being away from you either, but we both knew this was a no-strings-attached relationship. I’ll be back in your inbox before you know it!

In the meantime, you can follow my #NaNoWriMo progress (and anxiety) on Instagram. There will also be a final My Side Plot book review next week for The Eyes Are The Best Part by Monkia Kim.

In summary….

ALSO PLEASE HMU IF YOU’RE DOING #NANOWRIMO TOO! STRENGTH IN NUMBERS!