Are you looking for summer reads?
1. But Lisa, I don’t have a Kindle!
2. But Lisa, I want to pay you for your books!
Too kind, but really, please download it when it’s free, because it’ll boost my ranking!
I accept Venmo, PayPal, and…
Will Smith is encouraging us to lose that lockdown weight. Restaurant owners complain about “lazy” employees who would rather take a “handout” than get back to work. The American machine is pushing us to buy — Now that there was a crisis, buy a house in Austin and LIVE THE AMERICAN DREAM.
I noticed this same sense of panic at the beginning of lockdown. We were bombarded with workout challenges. We made bread, for fuck’s sake. I watched a roommate of mine go from day drinking to making dough to night drinking.
It’s the American pressure to do, do, do…
I have a message for the girl without a cell phone.
Tell her I made it to the Caribbean side okay. The rumors aren’t true — they still have curfew. I heard this guy complaining about having to get tacos before 9.
Tell her the cops tilt their helmets at me. She will know what it means.
I saw my ex. He still has abs but he’s losing his hair. I told him it would never be okay. She will know what it means.
Stacey had her baby. She can ride a bike again. …
Sometimes, if I know someone is reading my writing, I feel like I’m in trouble. I get anxious. I run through all their potential comments or beef in my head. I consider changing the book/post or taking it down entirely.
I don’t want to hear what they think. I feel I’m going to get yelled at. I immediately become tense. Afraid. Defensive.
And it’s not anyone. I could care less about sexist, ragey comments from strangers. It doesn’t bother me when people call me fat, or shrill, or accuse me of making sexism worse by…describing it, lol.
Those comments make…
You know what I think? I think what you know.
I think I’m smarter than these tech bros.
Sure I can take coke and go on Twitter and be right some of the time. I can be a prayer.
You talk about Bitcoin and think I don’t understand, because of my brown skin.
I’m pretending I don’t speak English so I don’t have to hear about Coinbase. I’m going to take a nap; waste some white chick’s time.
You know what I think? I think what you know.
All your power is in making me doubt myself. You act above…
My family is Costa Rican, and I’ve probably spent, overall, half of my life in Costa Rica. I speak Spanish. I’m also American. I was born in NYC.
I’ve been hit on by retired men who say things like “I’m over 18! I’ll show you my ID!” Wink wink! I’ve been hit on by retired men who tell me my English is good. And I’ve been hit on by retired men who love to complain about Western women.
I’ve heard them in casinos complaining about their ex-wives to prostitutes. I’ve heard them complain loudly to other men. I’ve seen them…
I am not your Earth Mother. I am not your Goddess. I do not have to repeatedly take the high road, turn the other cheek. I’m not a stepping stone on your path. I’m not here to teach you some wisdom that you can package and mass produce and sell.
I’m not here to teach you any lesson.
I am not your Earth Mother. You’re not going to use my brown skin and “sturdy” genes and frame. I don’t want to hear that I’m closer to nature than you are, which is really your way of saying I don’t fit…
My default is single. Her default is Hot Girl Summer. The ideal default is paired up, wifed up, right? The end goal of everything is to be married and in love.
Surprise, my love is fear. I am this way, and my mom is wired the same way.
It’s the tension we feel when a man walks through the door. Am I doing something? He can’t see me doing nothing. Or, if I told him I was sick, then he can’t see me doing something. …
He made his post simple. He was going to retire. He wanted to retire in Costa Rica or Nicaragua. He wanted a high-quality woman…no older than 45. That seemed reasonable.
He got a lot of hate…from women, of course. They were just jealous.
He got some chuckles from men who had already been through the ringer.
Costa Rican women are better looking, but Nicaraguans cook better…pick your poison!
He didn’t get any helpful advice.
A year later, he was high on cocaine and sending an email to a hotel he had stayed at. Didn’t they know about lockdown…
He didn’t want to cuddle. He had never heard of the importance of aftercare. I didn’t have the heart to tell him, but someone had died in his bed.
I knew the way I know things. It was just a feeling, but as I asked questions, I became more and more sure. He insisted that yes, the mattress had been purchased used, but barely used. He commented that it smelled so so clean.
I knew his bed was haunted, and really, he needed the aftercare more than I did. There was a spirit…or two…looking to creep right between his ears…