The Unsettling Trend of Dehumanization (And Why We Must Fight It At All Costs)

Oh. My. God.

So the government is planning on rounding up the info of folks with autism and doing God knows what with it. As someone who is (now thankfully) self-diagnosed, I’m probably safe for now. But this doesn’t exactly bode well for those diagnosed with other forms of neurodivergence, and considering RFK Jr. has already laid out his plans for people with ADHD, a condition I am properly diagnosed with, I have some cause for concern.

Because we’re in the beginning stages of genocide.

Just listen to the way he talks about us:

Autism destroys families, and more importantly, it destroys our greatest resource, which is our children. These are children who should not be suffering like this. These are kids who will never pay taxes. They’ll never hold a job. They’ll never play baseball. They’ll never write a poem. They’ll never go out on a date. Many of them will never use a toilet unassisted.

Dehumanization. That’s where we are.

We live in a world that values labor above everything else. If you’re not able to hold down a job, sucks to suck, you just don’t get to live. If you can’t contribute to society in any meaningful way, you’re a waste of carbon atoms and a drain on our resources and should probably be Old Yellered on sight like the useless sack you are.

*Rabies* are what happen when you don’t believe in vaccines, *RFK.*

The value of a person is determined by what they bring to the metaphorical table, and if you lose that value by losing the ability to work, you wear the scarlet letter of being a freeloader at best and a symbol of the downfall of civilization at worst. Sometimes you don’t even need to lose the ability to work. Sometimes your perceived lack of contribution to society is not paying your share of taxes (like undocumented immigrants) or not making your share of babies (like queer folks). But whatever it is, these people are not contributing like good citizens.

And I think that’s where the disconnect is, because a human life shouldn’t be weighed against how hard it has worked, how much money it has given, or how many babies it has popped out. Human life should be considered inherently sacred, with no conditions. Hell, all life should be considered sacred and handled with care. My dad (who dubiously claims he is of indigenous descent, although I’m not sure I buy it) says when certain Native American tribes kill an animal for food, they say a prayer of thanksgiving for it. And apparently there’s some truth to that. And if a buffalo’s life is worth enough to warrant a gratitude prayer, a human life should be worth so much more. The Good Book even says so:

Are not two sparrows sold for a penny? And not one of them will fall to the ground apart from your Father. But even the hairs of your head are all numbered. Fear not, therefore; you are of more value than many sparrows.

-Matthew 10:29-31

But we don’t value each other.

Wanna see something horrifying?

Those are people. Human fucking beings. “But these are violent criminals!” Well, for one, 179 out of 238 of these guys don’t have a criminal record and were sent to this fucking gulag without due process, which, may I remind you, is so important to our American way of life that it’s an amendment in our Constitution. You know, that thing that’s supposed to govern how we run this country?

But imagine, for a second, these dudes were violent criminals. Should they be rounded up like cattle and tortured for their sins? It’s tempting to say yes — if someone violently murdered my family, my kneejerk reaction would be “throw them in the woodchipper.” But in addition to a multitude of arguments against capital punishment, just by saying “x, y, & z are worthy of punishment by death,” we set a dangerous precedent that crime must be paid for with human life, and who decides what’s a crime? Rape and murder are obviously bad to most decent people at least, but remember that historically, being queer was a crime, and it still is in parts of the world.

You can see where this is going, right?

You can’t tell me you did Nazi that coming.

When the government decides an entire group of people are worthy of death, it’ll make their very existence a crime. That is dehumanization.

I’m honestly afraid of how and even if we can come back from this. How do you teach people that they should care for one another? How do we teach people that altruism and compassion are cooler than “owning the libs”? How do we teach people that kidnapping and torturing folks is bad? That all feels like common sense to me. And yet so many Americans are clinging to the very ideas their grandfathers fought against in World War II.

There’s a quote in the first Pokémon film from Meowth of all characters that goes like this:

I think about my big brother, who ended up an all-out Trumper despite being raised by the same blue-collar Democrats as me. We have very different values and views, but at the end of the day, we were both born from the same womb. The same blood runs in our veins. Despite the fact that he’s a business owner with a traditional marriage and four kids and a perfect picket fence life, there are so many things we share as well.

He is every bit as human as me.

I recently started a job at an assisted living home, and last night while I was changing one of the residents, I noticed his bright red MAGA hat staring at me from his bedside table. You know what I did?

I gave that man the exact same care I would have given my own grandfather. Because that’s what being human is about.

In that moment, I didn’t see a man who voted to take away mine and my loved ones’ rights. I saw a man with a family who loves him enough to bring him a giant stuffed puppy, who lay helplessly in his own excrement, desperately crying for help. Jesus said to love and pray for your enemies, and I’m gonna fucking do that if it kills me. I want to love so fiercely and fearlessly that it baffles everyone around me.

And that’s why I have this blog. Our best defense against genocide is humanizing our experiences. I want to soften hearts. I want to humanize myself as a queer, polyamorous, neurodivergent woman. I recognize that many people might not have ever met someone who ticks all those boxes and only get their information about those demographics from sources like Fox News and other conservative media companies. To those people, it’s my job to be a positive representative. I’m demonstrating to them that I’m not some irredeemably evil sicko that needs to be put down. I’m a daughter, a partner, a friend, a future mother, a musician, an artist, a caregiver, a teacher, and a writer. But most importantly, I’m a human.

We all are.

Worth the Fight: A Few Thoughts on Faith and Sacrifice

This blog post begins with a song. And it’s not a happy one.

This is a song I recently composed called “WTF.” The title perfectly encapsulates how I feel about the condition of the world right now, but it has a double meaning:

Darling, you’re Worth The Fight

Even if I don’t make it out alive

For you I’m ready to die

A girl like you is Worth The Fight

I was hesitant to put this song out into the world for a number of reasons. For one, it was unfortunately made from lyrics I hand-wrote and stupidly fed into an AI software, which I’m not proud of, but I feel like I’ve altered the melody and structure of the song enough to be my own original material at this point. And I’ve wrestled with this song for months now, trying to find some way to salvage it because of how personal the words are to me.

Because this song isn’t just any old song. It’s about how I’m absolutely willing to die for my girlfriend, and I mean every word of it.

And it’s all because of one peculiar Jewish carpenter who walked the planet 2000 years ago.

For better or worse, growing up, I attended church. My parents weren’t very religious, but my mom wanted me to have a basic understanding of the Christian faith because she felt it was important for me to have that spiritual experience as a kid. And I mean, what child doesn’t love vacation Bible school?

I was baptized at 14, mostly because I wanted to impress the really cute good little church boy I was madly in love with. To be honest, a lot of me attending church as a youngin’ was because I desperately wanted to fit in with my friends, who were mostly from evangelical families. But as I got older, I started making my faith my own. In my teen years, my OCD really started beating me down, and I felt really scared and alone in the world, but all of that disappeared when I was standing in the crowd at youth group screaming along to “How He Loves” (the “sloppy wet kiss” version, natch). I could feel the presence of Jesus in the music — I think that’s one of the reasons music feels so sacred to me. I always call music my first language as a shy autistic little girl who didn’t know how to talk to people, but it wasn’t just my way of communicating with my peers. It was also my way of communing with the Divine, and it made my relationship with Christ that much more personal to me.

I stopped going to church for many reasons, both personal and practical, but I still find myself going back to the holy scriptures and seeking comfort in the words of my Savior from time to time. And this morning was one such time, because it hit me.

If the world keeps progressing (or rather, regressing) the way it is, my time on this planet could be cut alarmingly short.

I don’t want to be a martyr, but I’m becoming increasingly afraid that might be my fate. I don’t want to go quietly into a world where my girlfriend has to move across the planet to get away from those who persecute her. And that is something that’s on the table, as she recently told me she can get Italian citizenship from her grandmother. But I don’t want to live in a world where she’s so casually and cruelly ripped away from me by the fucko from The Apprentice of all people.

I wish I knew how to protest in a way that means something, but I’m paralyzed by my fear of dying. There are literally people setting themselves on fire to take a stand, and I sincerely wish that was something I’m capable of, but I don’t think I’m that brave. I’ve considered staging a non-fatal hunger strike a la Gandhi and many brave suffragettes, but I’m also scared of being snatched up for being a political dissident and sent to El Salvador to have God knows what happen to me. To be honest, I’m almost too much of a coward to post this, as it’s probably the most personal and desperate thing I’ve ever written on here.

But with Christ, all things are possible, right?

I’m at a point where I don’t want things to escalate to the point where I feel the need to starve myself on the steps of the White House, but if that day ever came, I trust the Lord to guide me. I don’t want to die young. I want to get old. I want to be a grandmother someday. I want to live in a cute little nursing home with a bunch of other old people like the one I work at. I hope those are the cards I’m dealt eventually. I don’t want my last days on Earth to be uncomfortable and painful and scary.

That being said, if my time here really is to be cut short due to political violence, I don’t want my life to be in vain. I want my life to have meaning. I want my life to be marked by the kind of sacrificial love I learned from my Savior. In John 15:13, Jesus is quoted as saying:

“Greater love has no one than this: to lay down one’s life for one’s friends.”

That’s the kind of love I want to be remembered for someday.

Jesus at the Karaoke Bar: How Singing With Friends Can Maybe Heal the World

I had a real odd revelation recently. I haven’t been to church in a while now, and as a fairly pious person, I should be hankerin’ for a robust spiritual espresso shot of the Good Word. Like, I’ve been an active churchgoer for much of my life, so not having a church home in my town is pretty unusual for me. I checked out a progressive, queer-affirming church in Kalamazoo and even attended a few times, but it didn’t stick the way I thought it would. In fact, you’d think I’m in a terrible spiritual rut by the looks of it.

But believe me, I’m still finding Jesus every week…just in a much stranger place.

That is, the karaoke bar.

I’ve been an avid karaoke-goer since the move to Fort Wayne last year, when my wife decided on a whim to check out the local gay bar on karaoke night. She doesn’t sing, but knows I love to. So we got all dressed up and sure enough, we met some of the coolest folks there. That was enough to spark something, and we kept going back. When we finally moved to Kalamazoo later on in the year, one of the first things we sought out was another outlet for my newfound karaoke lust. That’s when we found Old Dog Tavern.

So we’ve been going every Friday for half a year now. I’ve got a whole slew of friends I see every week. We’ll go out on the back balcony, smoke a joint, and catch each other up on life. Then, when we’re back inside, we all take turns singing our favorite songs and cheering each other on. There’s no competition (well, except when another girl sings Heart — that is my territory), and it’s all in good fun. Some of us are natural performers, and some of us just like being silly on stage. But no matter what, we all go because something keeps drawing us back.

And I think I know what it is.

It’s community.

For years, church was my only community. It was where I went to socialize, make music, break bread, and share life. And I think for a lot of religious folks, that’s the case. The Bible even encourages this:

And let us consider how we may spur one another on toward love and good deeds, not giving up meeting together, as some are in the habit of doing, but encouraging one another—and all the more as you see the Day approaching.

-Hebrews 10:24-25

We need each other. I’ve written extensively about how we’re not designed to live in isolation, and one of the good things I think religion contributes to society, for all its ills, is the inherent sense of community it brings to its congregations. But there’s a hitch. Though the statistics may have changed in the last ten years, data as of 2015 shows that folks in the United States are less religious than they used to be. And people are also lonelier than they used to be. So should we be working to get more butts into pews?

Maybe there’s another solution.

No, not the church — the karaoke bar.

I often describe my experience at karaoke as almost spiritual. I leave with my heart full every time — it’s how I recharge my internal battery each week. It reminds me of the feeling I’d get from singing in church when I was younger. It connects me to the music, to my community, to God, to the universe.

What if everyone had a place like that to go to every week?

The world is a scary place right now, and it’s getting even scarier. What we need now is more singing and more community. Revelations 21:3 and Acts 17:4 maintain that the Lord doesn’t live in a particular building, but within us. When we all gather together, we know that God is there with us. As silly and almost blasphemous as it sounds, I find Jesus every week in the smiles of my friends and the sound of the music. In a weird way, it’s my church.

Religion obviously isn’t for everyone — many folks have been burned by it, myself included — but everyone needs a community. In a culture that’s becoming increasingly secular, we need to figure out spaces for people to fellowship together. That’s why I feel karaoke and similar activities like trivia night and music bingo have the power to really create these strong connections between people.

On Thursdays, I host music bingo at a little bar in a small town north of Kalamazoo, and you really need to see it to believe it. Last week, it felt like the entire population of the town was there, and the air had an electric energy to it. Everyone was talking. Everyone was making friends. I even had a brief heart-to-heart with one of my regulars outside. These are the nights that will make life still worth living when things go to hell.

I leave y’all with a song.

Maren Morris has the right idea. Sometimes you find God in the strangest places. Maybe that is driving down the highway with the radio on. For me, it’s when I grab the mic every Friday.

Mom Jeans, Ugly Sweater

Earlier today, on the Platform That Shall Not Be Named, I happened stumbled upon this, uh, gem:

It’s not a secret that I grew up in an evangelical environment. Not the fault of my parents, mind you — my mother and father are Christian culturally but otherwise pretty irreligious. It was primarily the influence of my friends, who all grew up with moms and dads who swore by Focus on the Family newsletters and listened to Newsboys for fun. I found myself heavily enveloped in the local megachurch by high school, thanks to these friends. I’m aware that I talk mad shit about that old church (and pastor, who recently asserted I had lost my “mind, soul, and conscious” by becoming a filthy liberal — no hate like Christian love, as they say). But there were good things about it, like the music. And the food. And the people. Some of the people, at least.

But I won’t lie, that church messed me up in a lot of ways. It goes way beyond just the gay stuff, which I’ve already addressed on here before. My body image was pretty fucky wucky for a hot minute, all thanks to the “modest is hottest” rhetoric. Basically, tank tops were verboten for two reasons. Two big reasons.

First and foremost, modesty was to protect the boys, because of course it was. We were taught that looking at a woman lustfully was just as bad as sleeping with her, so instead of, you know, plucking out your eyeball like Jesus said to do, the crux of the responsibility was put on the girls to not be a “stumbling block.” We couldn’t cause the poor innocent boys to sin with our exposed bodies!

But there was a second, almost more sinister reason.

It was to protect us from the boys.

Because boys have no self-control, right?

It’s like putting a steak in front of a dog and expecting him not to eat it. I heard that one in church before. You can’t be dressed “slutty” in front of a guy because if he takes advantage of you, people assume you wanted it. It’s a shitty sentiment for both guys and girls. It’s basically saying all guys are inherent rape machines, ticking time bombs that will assault a woman with no remorse the second he has the opportunity, and I know that’s not correct. I know this because I surround myself with quality men who’d never, ever do that to someone. I’m fact, I’ve been around them dressed in my sluttiest apparel, and never once did I feel unsafe.

The one time I was raped, though?

Mom jeans, ugly sweater.

I still remember the exact sweater. It had chunky stripes of dark blue and purple and white and orange and pink and yellow. The jeans weren’t my typical sexy tight skinny jeans either. Nothing about this outfit was attractive. My hair was also a mess. When it happened, I don’t even think I was wearing makeup. I was literally at my homeliest. My point is, I was giving no signal to the world that I was “asking for it.”

Neither are the countless children who are sexually abused. Or the hijabis who get assaulted despite covering up far more than most women in the western world. A woman could wear a burlap sack over her entire body and still be a victim.

That’s because rape isn’t about the sex. It’s about power.

That’s what “memes” like the one I shared at the beginning of this blog post don’t get. Clothing is irrelevant. Do you think my rapist was deterred by a few buttons? He wanted what he wanted, and it didn’t matter if I was wearing my sexiest lingerie or, ya know, an ugly sweater and mom jeans.

It’s sad that we essentially teach girls that they’re to blame if they get assaulted. That’s what this line of thinking will inevitably lead to. Instead, we should be teaching young men to respect boundaries. Men aren’t all predators, and we need to show boys that they have the choice to be a good man. We need more positive masculinity. We need dudes to be more Mr. Rogers, less Andrew Tate. We need guys who are strong enough to stand up to abusers and gentle enough to not become one.

If you’re reading this and are a survivor yourself, please know it wasn’t your fault, no matter what you were wearing at the time. And always remember that you are more than the sum of your trauma. The awful shit that happened to you doesn’t need to define you. Rather, defy it. Live so completely and fully that the bad memories are entirely overwritten with positive ones. That’s what I’ve been trying to do, with quite a bit of success. It’s been nearly seven years and I don’t even recall his name. I recently stumbled upon a picture of him in my phone that I’d saved in case I ever wanted to press charges. It’s odd — the picture didn’t really freak me out as much as I’d thought it would.

But if I’m honest, I don’t know if I could ever bring myself to wear that ugly sweater again.

The Entertainer: How I Found My Life’s Calling

I write this from the fancy-schmancy professional studio I’ve been holed up in for the entirety of spring break. It’s almost 2 in the morning, and going by track records here, my bandmate and I won’t be leaving until 6, if not even later. The only thing I have to eat is a jar of cashew butter I shoved into my guitar case. I’m running on Adderall, enough caffeine to kill a horse, and a brief power nap I took hours ago. But as much as I want to complain, I can’t.

This is the life I chose, you know?

When I was a kid, this is the kind of stuff I’d dream about doing someday. I don’t think I can overstate how influential music was to me growing up. I’d watch Behind the Music religiously and dream about the day I’d be in my heroes’ shoes. I’d even imagine my own episode someday, all of my wild ups and downs throughout my career. Music was a mystical thing and I had my own pantheon — Bon Jovi were gods and Ann and Nancy Wilson were my goddesses.

I’m not actually goth, I was just really influenced by the music video for Heart’s “Alone.”

This past week, I’ve spent five nights and one long day doing what I’ve been wanting to do for years — work as a professional musician. I feel like I’m so close to phasing out any form of “real work” and just doing what I love, and it feels great to be honest. I’m sick of menial unimportant work. I want to do something with meaning.

For a long time, I assumed my role on this planet was to help people in a really real and tangible way. In high school, I was insistent on becoming a doctor so I could do just that (and for the clout of being able to call myself a doctor, obvs). Of course my parents talked me out of that career path, and probably for the best, because knowing how flaky I can be, I’d probably be the person who leaves a scalpel in a patient or something.

But even after I left my shallow dreams of doctorness behind, I was convinced I’d someday be a music therapist, and that was going to be my method of helping people. My first love has always been music, so I knew that had to be involved somehow. It was the perfect arrangement — I’d get to do what I love and also help people. Alas, those dreams didn’t pan out either, no thanks to my nightmarish internship that soured me to the entire profession I’d been pursuing for a decade.

Which leads me to where I am now. I host music bingo for a living. I put on trivia shows for local bars. I’m studying audio engineering and on special occasions, I get to be a studio musician and help out with recording guitar or bass. Nothing I’m doing is groundbreaking or livesaving. No one needs a game of music bingo. But I’m content, because the things I am doing are still important in their own way. I talked a little about serving glimmers as an entertainer on here, but it stands repeating. Entertainment and the arts are crucial to every day life because they’re an intrinsic part of being human. It’s why I’ve got mixed thoughts on AI. Art and humanity have been linked since the dawn of civilization. It’s what makes us different from other creatures, even relatively intelligent ones like dolphins.

Try making art with flippers, you untalented swine.

We need arts and entertainment. It’s the thing that keeps us sane in this hectic society. And honestly, it’s a huge honor work as an entertainer. I love what I do. I love putting smiles on people’s faces. I used to think working in entertainment was selfish. After all, I only want to do it because I love attention, right? And I mean, I do enjoy being the center of attention, but there’s an altruistic element to it as well. Making people happy — just giving people something to look forward to in this dark world — is what keeps me going.

I’ll end this sort of rambly blog post with an anecdote from my freshman year of college. I was very casually dating the sweetest, gentlest guy. He was smallish in stature and cute in a nice Jewish boy way and really, really loved sloths. My point is you’d never expect this young man to play guitar like a fucking rock god, but he did. He could shred. And he had such a way with crafting beautiful songs. We didn’t work out for reasons I’ll never know, but I was madly in love with him. That’s not why he holds a place in my heart to this day, though.

One night, we were sitting in the car. He was showing me Buckethead, one of his biggest influences, alongside John Frusciante, whom I also came to love. And my sweet kinda-boyfriend revealed to me the meaning behind his band’s name, Smiles and Anchors. He wanted to honor his passion for making people happy through music. That’s all he wanted to do. It wasn’t about becoming famous or rich. He just wanted to bring a little light to people in his little world.

And that shook me.

Music has always been my way of connecting with others, but I’d never heard anyone put it that way before. Until then, music was more about what it did for me. It made me happy. It made me connections with others. But what about the folks listening? To them, we’re the ones making life a little more bearable. We’re the ones providing the soundtracks to memories. And it’s kind of humbling in a weird way, and I like that. I never want to lose sight of why I play music. I never want to let my ego soil the joy I get from making my listeners happy with my songs, because it’s not about me. It’s about them. That conversation was part of the reason I ended up getting an anchor on my foot for my first tattoo. I wanted a physical reminder to stay humble, no matter where music takes me.

I intentionally censored my horrendously long and upsetting toes. You’re welcome.

And that’s what being an entertainer is all about to me. It’s hard work. It’s scary. You have to put yourself out there. You have to practice a lot. Sometimes you’re in the studio for so long your contacts practically melt into your eyes and you get a gnarly case of conjunctivitis (true story). But for all the sacrifices this lifestyle takes, it’s worth it. Being a performer has been some of the most rewarding work I’ve ever done, and I’m happy I get to share it all with you.

The Art of Becoming Immortal Through Writing

You’re writing your autobiography. What’s your opening sentence?

“She was born in the middle of a snowstorm on her mother’s birthday…”

Okay, maybe I won’t be pretentious and write it in third person, but I’ve very much toyed with the idea of writing an autobiography of sorts. I always said I’d wait until I was actually important to write one, but honestly, who’s the judge of importance? Lots of ordinary folks have put their life down into words.

It seems fitting to get this prompt on the eve of my birthday. I’ve been thinking a lot about how I want to preserve my story as I get older. I know I don’t want to be easily forgotten, that’s for sure. My biggest fear stems from one of the best animated films of all time in my opinion, Coco. At one point, a man literally dissolves into nothing after the last person on earth who remembers him dies. I don’t want to fade quietly into obscurity, with my story and my creations and my entire existence irretrievably forgotten.

Nothing like a whimsical cartoon fantasy to launch you into an existential crisis.

That’s why I write this blog. In a way, it is my autobiography. There’s stuff on here I’m very proud of. There’s stuff on here I’m not as proud of, but it’s part of my experience nonetheless. It’s different from my social media accounts where everything is sort of curated for the particular medium I’m posting on. In this blog, though, I can be completely myself. I’m not beholden to any standards or expectations. This is my little corner of the internet to do whatever I please with.

And so I write. I write about all of the things I love. I write about all of the things I’m passionate about. And most importantly, I write down my life story. Because when I make it to the end of the road, I don’t want it to be for naught. I want my life to have meaning.

I’ve been considering my own mortality quite a bit lately. I’m becoming acutely aware of the fact that I’m slowly catapulting toward death, maybe quickly if things in the world keep progressing (or rather, regressing) the way they are. I don’t want to be a doomer and assume it’s going to get that far, but if it does, we need to preserve our stories. Anne Frank humanized an entire people group through her writing, even if she ultimately perished. Her writing lives on. She lives on.

And that, my friends, is why I write.

Almost Icarus: What I learned “Writing” an Album With AI Software

This might be my most controversial blog post yet, moreso than any of my posts on religion or politics. Like, I could lose my Artist™ card over this transgression.

You see, I have sinned. I wrote an album using AI software.

Not a song.

Not even an EP.

A whole ass album.

I realize that sounds bad, and it kind of is. Bear with me.

“First you use AI, now you’re saying you have a bear with you. Can we even believe you Jessa??”

I’ve discussed AI in depth on here before, and to be honest I was a skeptic before I met a good friend who introduced me to the software. It was simple enough — you input a prompt (or a full set of lyrics if you’re really fancy), and out pops a song. And the songs it spat out were not robotic or mechanical at all. They sounded extremely realistic, all with breath sounds and guitar string scrapes and lifelike vocals. There was no uncanny valley — that valley had been crossed.

The friend was using the software because they don’t play an instrument, but wanted to write songs, which I mean, I definitely get that. I can’t shame someone for wanting to bring the music in their head to life. That’s what I’ve spent my entire life trying to do myself through songwriting.

But one night, I was bored at work. They say that idle hands are the devil’s playthings, and the little red man was feeling especially feisty I guess. So I downloaded the software myself and plugged in some of my unused lyrics along with prompts that reflected the kind of music I wanted to make. I figured it wouldn’t hurt to generate some ideas to glean. And holy shit was my mind blown. Suddenly I had one, two, five songs that were literally already complete, and according to the licensing policy of the particular software I was using, I could do whatever the hell I wanted with these songs. I could post them, remix them…

Pull it to the side and get all up in them.

I could re-record all of the songs I’d beep-booped and release them myself. It was genius! This was going to streamline songwriting in ways I’d never imagined. Suddenly, I was writing lyrics to see what the software would spit out. It was almost addictive.

But it didn’t come without a cost. I felt a twinge of guilt whenever my girlfriend would mention an anti-AI post. I knew what I was doing was technically cheating, but the dopamine hit from hitting “create” was too strong. My imposter syndrome was getting worse because of it. I’ve been writing music since I was 14 — how the fuck was a computer writing better songs than me? It was almost disheartening. Nothing I tried to come up with on my own compared to the full songs this software came up with in ten seconds.

Not to mention the fact that my taste in music was now borked. I now had all these songs I’d created and curated specifically for my own taste in music, and nothing else compared. I wasn’t getting “hyperfixation” songs like I used to because all I wanted to listen to were my creations on repeat. I needed to squeeze all of the joy I possibly could out of them because nothing else was satisfying.

The songs after I sucked the life out of them.

So here we are now, with me stuck with 12 songs I only half wrote and don’t know what to do with. The conundrum I find myself in is that these are not only good songs, but personal songs. I used some deeply personal lyrics I couldn’t find a melody worthy of in order to make some of these songs. There’s a song about recovering from my rape, there’s a song about how I probably won’t ever get to have a kid, there’s even a song about how I’m willing to go to war to defend my girlfriend from Nazis. I tried rewriting them but nothing sticks like the fucking AI songs. At this point they’re more than songs. They’re demons I need to exorcise.

And the only way I can exorcise them is by re-recording them and releasing them into the world.

I wanted to write this blog post before I post anything from this album just because I don’t feel ethically sound releasing something made with AI without disclosing that detail. I came to love these songs and I hope you do too, despite their origin. They’re still very much my work lyrically, and I’ll do my best to make it musically own as well. It’s unsettling how close some them already sound to songs that came directly from my noggin. “Fire” is a sexy rocker to “Sweet Honey,” and “WTF” could be considered the sequel of “Chrysanthemums.” I’ve been trying to think of some way to frame the release of these songs as a social experiment — will the music I created with AI be more successful than music created entirely by humans — but truthfully, I just want to get these songs out there in some fashion.

This blog post comes with a warning — if you’re a creative type at all, use caution when utilizing AI software, because it will erode your actual skills if you’re not careful. That’s not to say it won’t have any legitimate uses. I can see it being used in music therapy settings with a lot of success, and I’ve heard of nerdy types using it to make songs specific to their D&D campaigns. Hell, I can see it being used to get ideas during a bad writer’s block, so long as you don’t lose your own voice. But therein lies the problem. AI is like fire — it is a tool, but you have to remember, it’s still fucking fire. It’s almost eerily fitting that the software I used contains the word “sun” and one of the songs I made with it was one named “Icarus.” At first I wanted to believe I was Bernie Taupin and the AI was my Elton John, but if I’m honest, I was Icarus and the AI was my sun.

It’s not flying, it’s falling with style.

I don’t harbor any ill will toward the friend that showed me the software or even the software itself. I’m glad the songs I beep-booped into existence exist now, even if I wish the circumstances behind their existence were different. I don’t know if I’ll ever write anything with AI again after this project is properly exorcised. My next project is a concept album that’s almost finished lyric-wise, and I’m so tempted at times to pump them into the software and see what it comes up with, but I’m restraining myself as best as I can. I want to see what I can come up with this time.

I kind of miss the process of creating, and im tempted to make my next project entirely analog for this reason. I miss that hands-on feeling. When I was at my girlfriend’s apartment this weekend, I toyed with her synthesizer and recorded a handful of catchy riffs with my phone. They’re not full songs, but they’re starts. And most importantly, they’re mine.

Famous in Kalamazoo: The Art of Finding Happiness Wherever You Are

This blog post begins with a song. Meet one of my most recent creations, “Kalamazoo.”

When I was just a kid

I always wanted to be

Just like pretty rockstars

I saw on MTV

I’d tease up all my hair

Wear my mama’s clothes

Grab the nearest hairbrush

And put on a show

Now that I’m older

I’ve got my own band

I sing my own songs

Guitar in hand

I’m still not a rock star

But I gotta admit

That celebrity kind of life

Just isn’t it

My biggest stage is the local bar

I might still drive a beat-up car

But I’m happy where I are

I don’t wanna be a star

But I’ll keep dreaming like I do

I just wanna be famous in Kalamazoo

I wrote this song a few nights back about my thoughts on fame and whether I even want anything resembling it at this point. You see, as a child, I desperately wanted to be a rock star. I was obsessed! I loved watching documentaries about my favorite musicians and how they rose to the top, and I’d always imagine my own story someday. I felt I was destined for the biggest stages on the planet.

Obviously, it’s 2025, I’m almost 32, and I still have not “made it” in music in any significant way. My closest brushes with fame were touring with a pop-punk band and getting to the third round in American Idol (which wasn’t televised, so it doesn’t even count). I’m not noteworthy by any stretch of the imagination — I don’t even have my own Wikipedia article (yet). I should be disappointed, and maybe I am a little bit.

But a part of me is almost relieved.

My girl Chappell was incredibly vocal about her struggles with fame after her meteoric rise to pop stardom this past year. Here she is, saying how she really feels:

Those are some harsh words, but there’s a truth to it. Fame can be crushing and scary if you’re not prepared. People can be cruel to celebrities online. Unhinged creeps are a real problem. Eminem’s “Stan” may seem like an exaggeration of obsessive fandom, but truth is scarier than fiction. The Bjork stalker sticks out in my mind as one of the most horrifying incidents in music history, and who can forget what happened to poor Selena Quintanilla?

I still want to make music, and to be honest, I still want to be “famous,” just on a much smaller scale. I want to be locally famous. I want to be a prominent figure in the community and music scene. I don’t want the Grammys or the Versace gowns. I just want a city where everyone knows my name, and that’s what my new song is about.

I posted a snippet of the song to social media, and one listener described it as the feeling of being content no matter where life takes you, and I really like that. “Kalamazoo” is kind of my new philosophy toward success. It’s finding happiness and fulfillment wherever you are.

Even if that’s in a little Midwest college town with a silly name.

So I’ll keep dreaming like I do — I just wanna be famous in Kalamazoo.

We Need Each Other

I’m starting to really appreciate the concept of community.

You see, I realized something recently — up until last year, my wife Crass and didn’t really have a community of our own. We had a few friends, even a few ride-or-dies, but no village, so to speak. And every night was the same — we’d get home from work, sit on the couch, and veg out until we inevitably got tired enough to sleep. It was a life, but it didn’t feel like living. It felt like we were just wasting time until the sweet release of death.

“I heard you were desperate for friends.”

I think things started to change for us when I met my girlfriend (we’re polyamorous, to clarify). We actually met at a Valentine’s Day event that I was hesitant to even go to because I wouldn’t know anyone there. But I met Olivia, and she had this contagious energy about her. As I found out, she loved going to things like art shows and open mics and festivals, and I found myself following her to those types of events. Suddenly, I was doing more than just working. I was living.

But karaoke was the catalyst that led to the life I know now. When we first went to Fort Wayne for my ill-fated internship, Crass suggested checking out the local gay bar the first week. Which was very uncharacteristic of her, an introvert, but I think she was feeling what I was feeling at the time. Restless.

It was at the gay bar that we met the first karaoke crew. There was Kyli, feisty and charismatic, and Theo, her calmer (albeit very silly) best friend, and their pal Zariel, a big lovable goofball who could sing “Poison” by Bell Biv DeVoe like no one’s business. They were so quick to welcome us into their world. We started going on all kinds of adventures around town, and despite the internship falling through, I don’t regret a thing because of the people I met there.

As I’ve started to say, the real music therapy degree was *the friends we made along the way.*

I’ll admit it sucked moving away from them (which was the only part that sucked about leaving Indiana, where no one should be). We’d finally found a tribe to call our own, only to lose them almost immediately. But we had to do what we had to do, and that involved moving to Kalamazoo, where the universe had been leading us for years. I started to worry if we’d find our people in this town. It was a college town after all, and we skewed a little older than college age. Were we doomed to be lonely again?

Then Crass threw out the same suggestion that seemed to work in Fort Wayne — let’s check out the local karaoke scene.

That first night, we met so many fantastic people (and one awful person), and we were hooked. From then on, every Friday, we’d gather at Old Dog Tavern downtown and sing our hearts out. There was Steve and Luke and David, the three most wholesome white cis dudes you’ll meet this side of Mister Rogers (but with a lot more marijuana). There was Mary Emma, a beautiful and confident slightly older queer woman who quickly became someone I could look up to. There was Clara, a kind statuesque blonde bartender who could quite possibly out-belt Aretha herself. There was Kim, who admittedly sucked, but they can’t all be winners I guess. The karaoke scene had so many colorful characters, and I loved getting to build relationships with all of them (except Kim, cause fuck Kim).

They say no man is an island, and it takes a village to raise a child. I’m sure those proverbs extend to women and nonbinary folk as well. I don’t often quote from the Bible on here anymore because I know spirituality can be a touchy subject, especially with our current political climate, and I don’t want to alienate any of my readers. Still, there’s a few verses from my favorite emo song — ahem, Biblical book — Ecclesiastes, that describes this phenomenon perfectly.

Two are better than one,
    because they have a good return for their labor:
If either of them falls down,
    one can help the other up.
But pity anyone who falls
    and has no one to help them up.
Also, if two lie down together, they will keep warm.
    But how can one keep warm alone?
Though one may be overpowered,
    two can defend themselves.
A cord of three strands is not quickly broken.

-Ecclesiastes 4:9-12

I’ll leave y’all with this, and I promise it’ll all come together. When I married my ex-husband, it was a shotgun affair because of his faith, so I didn’t know a lot about him, like the fact that dancing is prohibited in his aforementioned faith. No one told me that until the reception. I was pissed. All I wanted since I was a kid was a fun session I could dance at with all my friends and family! I honestly should have been more of a bitch about it than I was.

I shoulda gave *Bridezillas* a run for their money.

Anyways, that marriage obviously failed, and when I remarried my current spouse, we had a small, intimate (also shotgun) ceremony that lasted all of ten minutes. So I never got my wedding dances.

As I mentioned in a different post, Olivia and I are engaged-ish. We can’t legally marry, but we can have one hell of a commitment ceremony to make up for it. And when one of my new friends found out about the disaster that was my first wedding, he offered to rally the karaoke crew together to raise funds for a ceremony for me and Olivia, one we could really dance at. It was enough to almost make me tear up. Not just the idea of finally getting to dance, but the idea of all my friends coming together to help us.

I have a community now.

Things aren’t great at the moment, and it has been weighing on me quite a bit if I’m honest. I don’t know what’s going to happen in the next few years. The Trump administration already removed the T from “LGBTQ,” which does not give me warm fuzzies about the future of us queer folks in this country. Will I be rounded up and imprisoned or worse for loving another woman? I don’t know yet, and it’s scary. But I’m not going into battle alone. I’ve got so many good people in my corner now, and I have no doubt in my mind every single one of them would fight for me if it came down to it.

Community is going to be what saves this country. More than ever, we need each other.

If Sh*t Hits the Fan, I Hope the Eggs Were Worth It

So uh, something pretty big is happening later today.

Full disclosure: I am not very happy about this turn of events. I don’t think our Orange Overlord is fit to be president, and I don’t feel safe as a queer woman in a country that voted for him. He’s um, not been great for us, generally speaking. So I won’t lie and say I’m not a little scared for my future and my loved ones. Should I be afraid? I don’t know. I’d like to think this administration will be too stupid to do any lasting damage, but considering the everything, we seem like we’re on a collision course straight to Germany circa the 1930s.

So I’ve been mentally preparing for whatever comes next. I don’t want to believe any amount of Americans would be okay with sending entire people groups to interment camps, but it wouldn’t be the first time, and judging by some of the comments I’ve seen on the internet, there definitely exist folks who’d want us imprisoned or worse.

I’ve written before about the alarming lack of empathy, and I think it’s at play here. Americans are so obsessed with themselves, I think we sometimes forget our humanity. We don’t think about how words affect people, or how our votes are going to affect people — let’s be real, we don’t think about other people at all. We don’t give a fuck about homeless vets or folks with cancer who need a goddamn GoFundMe to afford treatment to live. We happily threw the trans community and immigrants under the bus in the name of cheaper eggs, and that’s fucking heartbreaking.

I don’t think Trump is the problem, but I think he’s a symptom of a much bigger problem. We’ve proven to the nation that kindness doesn’t get you ahead — being manipulative and cunning does. How else would you explain the TikTok fiasco? He set a fire, then acted like a hero for putting it out. And people were stupid enough to fall for it. Now, he’s set himself up as “the champion of free speech” to the younger generation for defending a platform he wanted gone in the first place.

If shit really does hit the fan and we witness the death of democracy, I honestly don’t know what resistance will look like. I hope we are strong, and I hope we have enough brute force if push comes to shove and the other side chooses violence. But more importantly, I hope we keep our sense of altruism and kindness. I think that will be what get us through these dark years ahead. At the risk of sounding like a total hippie, we need more music, more art, more peace, more love.

Another Woodstock would be cool too (just maybe *not* the one they had in the 90s).

I’m disappointed in our country, but I’m hopeful things will turn around eventually. I truly do believe most people are good, if a little ignorant at times. I don’t want to believe half the nation knowingly sold us out for eggs. I don’t want to believe half the nation wants me dead for liking girls. I want to believe we’re better than that. But if shit gets dark, don’t say I didn’t tell you so.