Kat-Lyn D.

Last night I did a thing. I popped an edible, smoked the bong, and grabbed inspiration (or rage?) by the balls. I don't really know for sure which bug bit me first. I had been listening to Laurence Fishburne talk shit about white people as the voice of Malcolm X for the last three days--so much so that I probably have the first three chapters memorized by now because there are gems starting on day one. I mean, I thought I was gonna die. The last two weeks I have had the worst  cramps, and a list of symptoms that had me thinking it could be anything from kidney stones, to my IUD growing into my spleen, perimenopause, endometriosis, or an ectopic pregnancy (very highly unlikely given my current sexual history).  La Rona has done nothing good for my sex drive. I don't want to meet anyone new because trusting these  mofos is like asking for a bullet to your brain. Every time I swipe right on an app I find more people who are going to "socially distanced" slumber parties, ...

For a long time I fought with myself about whether I'd write again. I always wanted to, but I never felt capable. Truthfully, writing is a soul-wrenching occupation, and no matter how fictitious (or not) one's works may be, there is a certain level of self-evident truth one has to wrestle with internally. I always aspired to "Edgar Allan Poe it"--there's a certain level of inspiration one can receive from psychedelics, but I'm too poor for pure opium, and marijuana is not yet legal here in North Carolina. I will always say deactivating this page in 2012 was absolutely the worst thing I could have ever done--even if I still have the encrypted pages. While young-minded, they were pure, unadulterated thoughts. Genuine. Sincere. A version of myself that I can only struggle to remember.