My One Woman Crusade To Revive This Blog

I haven’t touched this blog in over two years. What can I say has really changed in that time? I turned 25 and felt my frontal lobe click into place and suddenly realized all my problems are my own damn fault! Then I turned 26 having fixed none of them. Still, the sun continues to rise and set. In 2022 I launched Slutty Garage, my literal baby that I birthed from my loins. Understandably, I’ve put most of my energy into my baby for the past fourteen months. I haven’t stopped writing, I’ve just stopped publishing my personal feelings on a domain that’s, like, the third thing to pop up when you Google my name. Go figure. I guess I started to get a bit insecure about my digital footprint. I mean, there’s a post on here about matching with my college professor on Tinder when I was 21 that I really should archive. I refuse to read it back after all these years but just for your information, my fully-developed-frontal-lobe-self doesn’t stand by anything I said. Also, I’m an out lesbian now. 

What I have read back is my 2021 post about my years involved with YWAM Perth, On Being In A Cult. I stand by what I said there. However, I followed it up with some promises about writing more on the topic, which I have not done. The truth is, I wasn’t exactly ready to open that can of worms. In 2021 I was less than six years removed from my time in the program. I was desperate to heal a wound I didn’t even understand. I am glad I didn’t continue publishing stories about YWAM. It would have hurt too much. Over the past two years, I have continued to get occasional emails from ex-ywammers who have stumbled upon the post. I am grateful for any way in which my words may help those people, but I am also aware of my inability to offer them anything other than solidarity in their pain. I have not successfully untied the knots within myself, but perhaps I have stopped looking for deliverance. The appeal of high-control groups such as YWAM is often the allure of being given a road map. When the chaos and confusion of life are too much, it can be a welcome relief to give yourself over to someone else, to tell you when to wake and when to sleep, what to believe, what to repent for, who to trust, and what to purge. There have been moments in the last several years where I have missed the road map, however dark and narrow. There have also been moments where I have thought of the girl I was and become so afraid because I do not recognize her at all. I recognize her fear and shame but not her choices. I was so desperate to be rid of myself back then, that I nearly succeeded. I don’t remember if I was happier in YWAM at 17 than I am now, or sadder. I only remember scribbling desperate prayers in my journal, there was so much I wanted to destroy within myself. I don’t feel that way as much anymore.

This year, I have been trying to write a book. I have also been trying to keep Slutty Garage afloat on my personal dime while acting as creative director, editor, designer, and distributor. I could outsource more of the work but I loooooove the control. Perhaps as a response to my lack of control over my situation for most of my life? Or maybe just because I am a Virgo. I’ve also been grueling myself with some of life’s hardest questions, like, Do I want to be a career bartender forever? Do I want to go back to school? Why am I still single? How did I not know I was gay for so long? How am I managing to spend so much money on Postmates? Am I fundamentally worse than other people because I hate going to the grocery store? Do I deserve to live even though I drive everywhere and have no interest in riding a bike? Will I ever be able to afford to live in an apartment that’s functional? What will happen to the back bumper of my car if I peel all this duct tape off of it? Is Taylor Swift’s relationship with Travis Kelce the real deal? My burdens are many. 

I can’t promise to revive this blog, but I kind of want to. It’s nice to have a place to publish writing that costs me nothing and is almost weightless in its lack of purpose. Also, I’ve had so much to say since I deleted Twitter. Recently, my iPhone auto-created a slideshow with pictures of my dead dog and set it to the song Dance Monkey by Tones and I. I realized without Twitter I had no succinct way to put this valuable information into the world. Even more recently I found a note on my phone that simply said “Menthol cigarettes smell like sex to me.” It’s humiliating because it reads like a handwritten piece of Tumblr poetry from 2014 but also because it reveals simply how many people I’ve had slept with that smoked menthols. I’ve learned the only way to free myself of the humiliation of writing shit like this on my phone is to publicly mock myself online. Here are some notes I found on my phone about attending Lesbian events in LA: “Masc lesbians in this city are surrounded at all times by a human shield on all sides at least two thirsty bitches deep. I’m exhausted by the demands of my imperfect life and don’t have the energy to try and penetrate that circle” and “Polyamorous lesbians with girlfriends are playing Pokemon Go with pussy meanwhile I’m playing Where in the World is Carmen San Diego trying to find but one single woman with whom I am compatible.” As you can see these are very clearly Tweets with nowhere to go. I created a meme page on Instagram last year that I was having a lot of fun with until I got locked out of the account permanently. This blog is, in some ways, all I have left to indulge my base urge to say stupid shit for a small but loyal audience. And yes, of course, buried in that stupid shit will always be some sentiment that’s almost cloyingly sincere. Cheers to that folks! Maybe I’ll see you (or more accurately, you’ll see me) in the new year!