Happy Holidays

I am sick and tired of doing this.

Losing my creativity at the cost of what? The gain for who?


The others.

It’s always the others.

I’m sick of this  shit.

Sick of it.

Believe it or not I would write lovely things.


Short Stories.

Wrote for publications.

The extent of being burned out.

We are not robots.

This life we live is mechanical.

To go faster, to produce faster.

At what cost?


Your art.

I wish not to be a robot.

Wish not for money.

My identity is worth more than anything you can throw my way.


How I Met Jane

How I Met Jane: Part One

They say that imitation is the best flattery.

I loved, well still do, Gwen Stefani (mostly No Doubt) since I was in elementary school.  I had an older cousin who was the epitome of a 90’s angry feminist and she was the reason I even heard of them, Garbage, and the Smashing Pumpkins. I was taught at an early age to be angry and write about it, it runs in the family.

When “Just A Girl” came out and I saw how cool and beautiful she was without having giant boobs (since I am only a B) or being half-naked, I was in awe. Who was this front woman? The Spice Girls couldn’t compare to this fierce, cool and confidence aroma she exuded. From her hair, style, everything I absorbed. I only listened to Elvis Presley, oldies, and my sister’s occasional boy bands at that time…but this was amazing.

Many years later, when I was allowed, I bleached the hell out of my hair for many years. One period of time I had my whole head pink, then my bangs, then a combination of the platinum and pink hue. I wore pinstriped pants, suspenders, mixing the masculine feminine look, along with huge liberty rolls.

The point was I looked up to her so much I wanted to be her. Eventually during my redemption of “Sunday Morning” at a talent show, I understood I couldn’t be her. The confidence I got during those years allowed me to eventually be myself. During those awkward years and living in a hotel (different story to be told later) it was a fresh of breath air to be fearless and say “fuck you, I’m a girl.”

Then again, there are some people who don’t like imitation. They say be yourself. Well what if in that moment of time you don’t know who the hell you are? or you just dislike that person called you? I suppose,  try someone else on for size, until you develop you. I know it seems odd but in reality this is what happened to myself and I think this was the only way to appreciate the skin I’m living in.

Personally I didn’t like when someone wanted to be like me. Copying my style, tastes, and all the other word vomit that propels from my mouth that people wanted to capture. It irritated me so much, which didn’t make any sense and was hypocritical of me considering that I was platinum blonde singing No Doubt songs. Of course during my life I was influenced by many other great people but nothing compares to the first person that made me want to change my whole look and above all my self-esteem.

Then I noticed my younger brother making a to-do list posted on his wall that had dreams bigger than his imagination. His random thoughts about the future, his obsession with time, growing out his sideburns to develop a vintage look, questioning his sanity, and contemplating over 1st, 2nd, and 3rd point of view.

He is me.

I guess without a male figure I am the best terrestrial shot of a vagina role model.

The biggest complement anyone could receive is when a person likes you enough to want to take a piece of you with them. I am in shock everyday that my brother looks up to me and doesn’t think of me as a failure on the couch. He just sees the big ideas and the adventures. I don’t think I saw that till I saw it in him.

So, Gwen Stefani, why don’t you, Tom, Tony, or Adrian respond to my tweets? Why?

…this is the time I suppose where no doubt finds and blocks me on twitter.

I am a brunette now.

Who was the first person you wanted to be like and why?