I say all the wrong things. All the time. I am inappropriate, the level varying on whether or not I’ve had my daily beer or wine. I’m still unsure whether drinking thickens or thins my filter. It definitely thins my ability to lend a fuck. I’m not from America, and even though I’ve been here for almost 18 years, I’m still not used to the culture. Smiling. So much smiling. People seem to be really happy here and have their shit together, at least on the surface. I am way too real. Happy. Sad. Angry. Whatever I feel, you will know.

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There are other odd customs here such as strangers complimenting each other when they don’t wish to sleep with them. “Oh, that’s a beautiful dress!” a woman exclaims to me in an elevator. I stare at her for about ten seconds trying to think of an appropriate response, and then silently shift my eyes to the very interesting brown color of the elevator wall. Compliments are like hyenas to me; I am okay knowing they are out there, but I don’t want to face them.

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I’m a woman powerhouse, but I prefer to be referred to as a girl, because living in denial about my age helps with my anxiety. If I go somewhere, and someone calls me ma’am, I freak out and have to take a triple dose of melatonin just to fall asleep. Thank you, Hyvee, for still carding me and, fuck you, the day you stop.

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I basically live off grid. I have no running water or a flush toilet. I live as far away from people as I can where I can scream or wear stained sweat pants or garden in the nude. And it’s okay. Nothing but cows and hay fields as far as the eye can see. Except for the commune that’s next door. And they’re all wearing stained sweat pants, so it’s okay. Grubby living is low expectations and low commitment, but it’s fucking beautiful. Morning to night I’m awed by the nature that surrounds me. I am also awed by the smell of my composting toilet in my house. Guests must be announced ahead of time, so that I can sage the shit out of my house and dribble essential oils of all kinds to confuse their senses. Why did I leave the commune and move next door? Well, I’m too radical for them and was called an anarchist. I guess I am both of those things. And fuck it, I’m proud of it.

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I’m a single mom, and I love the mom part. I mean really, really love it. I don’t love the single part, although it’s all the rage these days. Women doing it all on their own! So awesome, right? Wrong. Fuck being single. I hate it. I spend every morning meditating a man into my life, but he seems to be lost or unable to locate me. Maybe it’s because I don’t live at an address; I am unlocatable. But I keep up those manifestations for a husband, because I want to be touched again, and not in a hillbilly flea market, as you squeeze through a tight lane filled with people, and a guy rams his penis against your hip as he grins at you with kettle corn breath.

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My entire life, I’ve had zero stability. Parents that were not really in the picture, nor a job that I could maintain for more than three days, and no stable place of living, but one thing I’ve done since the booger eating days, is write and create art. I never completed high school, nor any other other degrees (unless you count the forged diploma I made that one time), and English is technically my third language, but I just have too much boiling up inside of me to keep my mouth shut. Between when I’m hauling water and scooping poop in or out of plastic buckets, I create. Whether it’s oil dribbling on a canvas or me sharing my fucked up thoughts, me taking self portrait or other nude photography or sharing stories. I can’t keep it inside and if you are here then you will get to hear and see all of it. If you had a great and peaceful childhood and your life is too mundane then – you’re welcome!

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Please don’t forward me your therapy bills after visiting my site.