Like I said in the video, she was essentially a drag queen’s take on “Alone”-era Ann Wilson from Heart with a lot less clothing and more sequins, with a bit of a femme Jon Bon Jovi flavor for taste and a hint of a dark-haired Sophitia from the Soul Caliber video games. She was a rock star, but more than that, she was the 20th century incarnation of Aphrodite, and she was tasked with both saving the world and her little sister from an ancient evil. She had a hot beefy boyfriend, but in my stories, she’d always save herself. She was kind of a badass.
I’ve written about her before and how I recently unlocked memories about this character, who was a kind of escapism to middle school-me. She was definitely my attempt at creating a self-insert and was probably something of a Mary Sue if I’m honest, but I loved her. She made me feel powerful when I was a scared bullied little kid. And when I happened upon a certain leotard online that resembled the signature bodysuit I designed for her, I knew it was kismet. I needed some new stage clothes and a new persona for my music career, and I really needed a Halloween costume. Besides, I wasn’t quite sure how I could top Chappell Roan last year.
I do still have the wig.
So I chose to lean into the cringe and live my childhood fantasy, because why not? The world is going to hell in a handbasket and who knows how many more Halloweens we’ll have before humanity inevitably blows up the planet. Why not add just a little bit of childlike whimsy to your world? People are so scared of cringe and looking uncool and it’s sapping all our creativity and fun. There’s a reason why popular music has been in kind of a lull lately. The Black Eyed Peas and OutKast could not have careers in our current zeitgeist. We’re too afraid of silliness.
The scariest part of the season is how many folks take themselves too seriously. I’m not afraid to admit I was a bit of a dork growing up, and I still am. And there’s absolutely nothing wrong with that. Embrace the cringe — be your childhood OC for Halloween.
Hello everybody! First things first — I’m alive and well. My socials have gone dark for the last few days for reasons that I can’t really get into at the time being, but just rest assured that I’ll be back posting your regularly scheduled unhinged shower thoughts and the occasional horny poem when the time is right. For this brief interim, I’ll be using this very blog to communicate my thoughts to the world.
And right now, those thoughts are kinda bittersweet. Because this is my final night in St. Louis, Missouri, a city that was previously unknown to me, but has since become something of a second home to me.
I remember when my boss first floated past me the idea of sending me via plane to train up some folks in a new region of the country. I should probably mention what I do for work before I go much further. I host game shows for local bars. I’m basically Alex Trebek for the drunken trivia enthusiasts of Kalamazoo. And occasionally, the parent company I work for sends me to new places to start up trivia and music bingo shows there. Like last autumn, I made a series of trips to Chicago. But even for those trips, I drove my own car. Getting shipped out to St. Louis was entirely new. The first few times, they flew me down, which was already a whole ordeal considering I was traveling with this thing in my suitcase:
TSA agents love me.
The flights were mostly uneventful, although I found I enjoy killing time in airports a little too much. Did you know you can buy lipstick from airport vending machines?! I promised myself I wouldn’t waste money on anything stupid, but I did need a new dark red, since my old favorite was discontinued. As a result, I am now the proud owner of a Kylie Cosmetics lip kit. Well, as proud as I can be considering it’s got Kylie Jenner’s name on it, and she irks me to no end for a slew of petty reasons.
But VENDING MACHINE MAKEUP!
The hotel they put me up in for all five weeks was a humble Best Western, and honestly, I can’t complain at all. It’s not the Ritz, but it’s comfy. There’s waffles in the morning. Hotel waffles just hit harder, okay? And the front desk lady was a total dear. She came out to one of my shows, actually. I wish I could remember her name. If you’re reading this, Sweet Front Desk Lady, just know I appreciated you!
In fact, I met so many kind people in this town. The owners and bartenders of the first bar I hosted at, Brothers Beer and Bourbon, welcomed me with open arms, and I befriended many of the patrons as well, including a really cool silver-haired woman who loves green and listens to Sabrina Carpenter. We talked for a long time after the show last night, and that was really the first time it hit me that this is goodbye. The owner of the bar made me his special cocktail, the Hippie Mule, one last time to take back to the hotel with me. (It’s a nonalcoholic version of a Moscow mule that substitutes the vodka for THC liquor, so it’s perfect if you’re Cali sober like me!) I actually teared up a little as I sipped it. The trivia show I started there has begun to take off, and now my baby’s grown and ready to thrive on its own. It feels good, if a little somber.
The second bar, OSP Tap Haus, was also a lot fun to host at, even if they only had me for two nights. That bar has one of the best (and only) nonalcoholic porters I’ve ever had, Deschutes NA Black Butte, which I am going to proselytize to every bar in the greater Kalamazoo area until they start carrying it too. Music bingo there was a little more subdued than I’m used to — my main shows back home always get wild — but it was still a blast. I’m sad I didn’t get a chance to try any of the food there though.
That was just my shows, though. I took myself out on lots of field trips while I was down here as well. I figured I’d have way more fun exploring the city than sitting alone in my hotel room. I checked out the Missouri Botanical Gardens, which was packed with so much vibrant life. I really enjoyed the arid climate atrium, which housed a little oasis in the center that looked like it belonged in Marrakech, not the Midwest. The fountain made for a great impromptu photoshoot.
Definitely almost dropped my phone in the water for this shot. Worth it.
Here’s a sheep sculpture that was part of a series of sheep sculptures. The artist’s write-up said they intended the sheep to be used as benches and encouraged people to pose with them, which I thought was kind of neat.
Just ewe and me.
And here’s some flowers:
I just thought they were pretty!
The zoo was an enjoyable excursion as well. I managed to get real close to some hippos and a polar bear, and I spent literally a half hour watching an elephant play with her food. She keep picking up hay with her trunk and slamming it down, watching it flurry in the air. I also rode the carousel, because I literally do not give a flying fuck if I am well into my thirties now, I am holding fast to my sense of whimsy ‘til the day I die. Listen, do you want to be a stuffy adult who has no fun, or do you wanna ridean ostrich?
Weee!
Blueberry Hill was the last thing on my list of stuff to check out here, and I made sure I swung by at least for a little bit tonight. I’d be remiss as a musician if I didn’t plan a trip to such an important and historic landmark in music history. Chuck Berry, a St. Louis native, performed there regularly, and he’s one of the founding fathers of rock and roll. It was certainly humbling to stand where he probably stood there at that bar. Sadly the stage wasn’t open for me to check out, but at least I got to take a look at some of the memorabilia scattered about. I wish I would have snapped a pic of one of Chuck’s famous gitfiddles that were sitting behind glass near the entrance.
I mean, it looked kinda like this.
As of writing, it’s almost 2:30 and I have to be up in two hours to catch my flight back to Michigan. I might not even sleep, to be honest. I kind of just want to sit up and let it all sink in. My heart is in Kalamazoo, but now I know I’ll always have a home in St. Louis. It’s funny — before I came here, I didn’t even know how to pronounce the name of the city. Like, I always assumed the “s” was silent (like in Louisville, Kentucky, where you will probably be crucified and subsequently fed to the local fauna if you articulate that “s”). I also never realized how vast and metropolitan it was. I’m a Midwesterner through and through, and while Midwest emo and Chappell Roan have done a decent job making us look cool in the media, we still have a reputation as “flyover country.” I’ve lived in this region my entire life and I’ve heard it again and again that Chicago and maybe Detroit are the only cities here worth visiting. This trip taught me that that’s simply untrue. There are so many hidden gems out there, and I’m blessed to have a job that allows me to go out and explore them at times. St. Louis has been so good to me, and I’m already plotting my next trip down here. I can’t not come back, even if it’s just for one more Hippie Mule.
I write this as my Chicago trip draws to a close. And man, am I glad I won’t have to type “I’m in Chicago” to people every five minutes, as I suck at typing the word “Chicago.” I swear I always write “chichi” or “chacha.”
Anyways, Chicago isn’t exactly a place people go to for spiritual enlightenment, but this trip was different. This trip came on the heels of my father’s death a few days prior. I’d had this trip with my bandmate planned for a little while, and I’d contemplated cancelling it, but sometime told me to go anyways. This trip was to see Phish, and, ya know, my dad had gone to Woodstock. The OG hippie music event.
You know I would have been this bitch had I gone myself.
I got the invitation from my bandmate and one of my best bros, Chris, who’s always buying tickets to see someone. Me, I very seldom buy tickets to see mainstream or larger artists. Most of the times I’ve gone to see someone bigger than Warped Tour-level, it’s been because a friend thought “Hey, Jessa likes music” and had no one else to go with. Which, I mean, I will never turn down a free show. It’s how I’ve seen Muse, KC & the Sunshine Band, Kiss, Motley Crue, Van Halen (WITH Eddie!), and so many more awesome as hell artists live. If you put out into the world that music is your entire life and just be nice to people, you will manifest concert tickets. At least I do, somehow.
Anyways, we get to Chris’s cool vegan sister’s studio apartment and I’m already high as balls because this is a Phish concert and if I’m going to see a jam band, I’m gonna do it right. That is to say, with a copious amount of a certain herb that is legal in the great state of Michigan. And Illinois, albeit way more expensive.
There is a speakeasy that has THC shots, to be fair.
And we get there and I’m just full of this nervous energy. I can’t explain it, but something’s in the air as we’re standing outside waiting to go in the stadium. At one point I eulogized Chris’s beloved signature hat that he’d worn during his stint with Wake Up Jamie by singing “Angel” by Sarah McLachlan, and some lady thought it sounded nice, even though I was just being silly. Then we got inside, and the munchies hit all at once. Cue me buying not one but two ice cream cones.
Then the show itself started and it was not at all the vibe I was expecting. I’d never listened to Phish but I knew their reputation as a stoner band, so I was expecting something a little more subdued and shoegazey. Instead, the first song was fun party music! I found myself actually dancing a little, although not as intensely as the old men around me, especially the one who literally spun around in a little clockwise circle the entire time.
Sometimes you just gotta spin around like a clock.
As I stood there with my little ice cream cone listening to these guys play, I studied the music in my head. At one point, there was a musical phrase that just didn’t resolve, and led into an explosive jam. It was uncomfortable and different, and I realized I haven’t been listening to music that challenges me lately. I haven’t been listening to music that makes me get tingles because of some weird cadence I’ve never heard before. Really, I think I’m just intimidated by new music in general. It’s part of why I never checked out Phish before — the archive panic. After all, my first awareness of Phish came after I discovered a compendium of their music and lore years ago at a Borders (really dating myself). All I remember aside from it being rainbow and really pretty was how it rivaled the actual Bible in length.
Someday several millennia from now, Phish will be revered as gods.
And that’s the thing about being at a Phish concert. I was aware that I wasn’t a native Phishhead (DuckDuckGo tells me the correct term is “Phan”). This was not my territory, and I wanted to be as respectful as I would want someone else to be at a Heart show. I don’t know shit about fuck when it comes to Phish, and I won’t pretend I do, but as a tourist in their world, I felt strangely welcome and at home. Some of the guitar solos brought a tear to my eye, and it was a reminder of how spiritual of an experience music can be.
The next day (as in today, the day that I’m writing this), Chris and I went to a Baha’i temple in the Chicago area.
Photographic evidence!
This picture doesn’t do it justice. It’s a beautiful work of architecture. That’s not what made me tear up, though. When we went inside, we were greeted by a beautiful a cappella chant led by a single man. It was absolutely soul-invigorating. This trip ultimately made me re-appreciate the way music has been there for me spiritually throughout the years, even in non-spiritual contexts. Like karaoke, or a Phish concert. It truly is a divine gift. As one of the founders of the Baha’i faith wrote:
“Music is one of the important arts. It has great effect upon human spirit … music is a material affair, yet its tremendous effect is spiritual, and its greatest attachment is to the realm of the spirit.”
I’ll never forget one of the last conversations I had with my dad. He was the extrovert. If you’re ever wondering where I get my outgoing nature from, it’s him. The man never met a stranger. You could be standing next to him in line at Meijer’s and he’d strike up a conversation with you about sports or the news or what-have-you. Anyways, I’d heard him mention Woodstock, but he’s been known to embellish stuff here and there, so I wasn’t sure if this story had actually even happened. But when I went to visit him last, I decided it was time to ask him.
He said he saved for two months to go because he knew it would be a big deal. All his coworkers made fun of him for it, but he didn’t care. He drove up there with some folks and stayed in little hotels along the way. At the site of the festival, they slept in a 20-man tent, and music went all throughout the night. He said he came to the festival with six friends and left with 28.
And that’s the power of music. It brought him together with those folks, many of whom he said were his best friends for years after the event. It brought me closer to him as he shared that story with me. And as I watched that Phish concert, I felt a sort of kinship to my dad and to everyone who’s ever been moved by music.
The thing about music is it’s not forever. Every song has to end sometime. But I’m glad I got to experience the song that was my dad’s life, even if it did have to end.
It was the professional equivalent of a relatively amicable breakup — my boss saw me struggling to even make it in on time due to my insane work schedule, and so she mercifully allowed me to quit with no hard feelings. I’ve never been fired, and this doesn’t even really count as a firing since I left on my own terms, but it still stings.
I’m not a stranger to failure, despite it rivaling death and abandonment as one of my biggest fears. Leaving the internship in Fort Wayne felt like a huge failure after everything I’d put myself and my wife through in order to finish my music therapy degree. I wasted so many years in school and have absolutely nothing to show for it. That was a rough moment in my history, but I managed to claw my way out of the dark depression it sent me into.
I don’t know how much clawing I have left in me, though. My fingertips are bloodied and raw. I’ve struggled enough.
This is all on top of the weight of the world, which has been crushing me with every disheartening story that passes through the news cycle. We live in a truly evil world where people get their kicks by literally kicking others down. Some bitch got hundreds of thousands of dollars for calling a child the n-word. How is it that terrible people get rewarded, but actual good people get fucked over? There’s still a whole bunch of bullshit happening in Israel and Palestine to folks whose only sin was being born in the wrong place at the wrong time, and don’t even get me started on the mess that is my own country at the moment. I wish I could just leave, but it’s not that simple. I can’t leave my family and friends and partners behind, so my only choice is to stay and fight the good fight, wherever that leads me.
But like I said, I’m don’t know how much fight I’ve got left. I’m fucking exhausted. The one thing that’s kept my spirits up at all is music and the prospect of someday becoming a successful musician in some form, but I’m afraid of becoming obsolete. I’ve already mentioned on my blog how dabbling with AI software started to bork my creativity, but like, what’s the point of writing songs when I can push a button and make the robots write one for me? And that’s the future we have to contend with. I’m not a vehemently anti-AI Neanderthal — I think there are legitimate uses, even in the art and music fields, and I’d be a hypocrite if I said I’ve never used it. Like, sometimes I’ll use AI to test out acoustic demos with a full band so I know whether or not the song is even strong enough to work with. But I’d never, ever release something to the public that I didn’t create myself. And I’m realizing most people don’t operate with those kinds of creative ethics. So as AI music becomes more prominent, I’m going to have to compete with a torrential onslaught of “creators” cranking out slop. Like, how long until we have an AI popstar?
But even if I didn’t have robots to compete with, I’m still racing against time. I’m 32. No one wants to listen to grandma sing her little songs, and I’m practically a grandma already to the suits who run the music industry. I remember when I was a freshman in college, it was a big fucking deal that Carly Rae Jepsen, who was at the height of her “Call Me Maybe” era, was 26. I’m six years older than that, and I have yet to make any significant waves in the industry. The music video for “Sweet Honey” sits just below 100 views, which is next to nothing. I can’t help but wonder what would have happened had I moved to Nashville or LA in my youth, but it’s too late now.
And even if I was still a hot twentysomething ready to take on the music industry, you have to remember, the music industry has changed. A lot. It’s damn near impossible to make money with streaming. And there’s no such thing as rock stardom anymore. Unless you’re Taylor Swift, Chappell Roan, Sabrina Carpenter, or Beyoncé, no one knows who you are, and no one cares. Monoculture is dead. Back when you had to listen to music on the radio, people could bond over hearing their favorite songs together. Now, everything is so fragmented. If you want to listen to nothing but progressive zydeco pirate metal, you can just search for bands that fit that perfectly in that very niche and never bother putting on anything else again. Vinyl sales are up, but that’s not gonna help your up-and-coming local band that’s still getting off the ground and doesn’t have thousands of dollars to drop on printing physical records. Which leads me to the biggest problem.
It costs too damn much to “make it” in the creative fields.
I could have moved to Nashville had it not been prohibitively expensive. I could sink all of my time and energy into recording quality music if I didn’t have to work three jobs for the privilege of breathing air. The famous folks you know and love are largely only there because they were born into money and had multiple safety nets to catch them in case of failure. Taylor Swift’s wealthy upbringing has been the subject of much scrutiny, but even one of my personal favorites, the aforementioned Chappell Roan, had a charmed life, growing up in a sprawling gated home that looked like this. I’m livid that the music industry and this entire country as a whole demands you be born with a silver spoon in your mouth, or else what you have to say or contribute isn’t important and you should just fuck off and die. It makes me viscerally angry, the amount of talent we’ve lost to poverty. The next Jimi Hendrix could be just around the bend, but if that kid’s parents can’t afford to get him a guitar and lessons, too fucking bad.
It’s a cultural crisis. And I’m scared I’m becoming one of its casualties.
I want to make it in music more than anything, but I’m so disillusioned at this point. I’ll never be a rock star. I’ll never be John Frusciante. I’ll never be Ann Wilson. The best I can hope for is some steady gig where I can make the music I want to make and earn a decent living, but there’s not a lot of jobs like that out there, especially not here in Kalamazoo.
I don’t want to end this post on a negative note, as many things in my life are going well. My dad was recently hospitalized, but he’s made a speedy recovery. My two primary partners have been incredibly loving and immensely supportive of me, and I might have a third partner who is also very sweet if I play my cards right. My dream pedalboard is finally finished, and since moving to Kalamazoo, I’ve got more friends than I can keep track of. I do have a lot going for me, but there’s always that part of me wondering when the other shoe is gonna drop. And a big black cloud hanging over me as of late is my frustration with, well, everything.
But I’m going to keep pressing on. With Guitar Center out of the way, perhaps I’ll have more time to work on the songs I want to get recorded and produced. Maybe I can sink more energy in the podcast I started with my best friend. Maybe I can even sleep a full eight hours like a normal person.
I’m trying to be cautiously optimistic, but optimistic nonetheless. That’s all I can really do.
That’s the first word that comes to mind after this Easter.
The day started in the fucking crapper. It was my third overnight shift as a caregiver and my chronic-whatever that’s making me not eat was really flaring up, to the point where I had to sit down every two minutes or so to keep from passing out. From the start of the day to the end of that night shift, I’d eaten maybe 400 calories, tops. I couldn’t get home from the facility fast enough. Once I walked through the door, I peeled off my scrubs and climbed into bed with my girlfriend and her other girlfriend, who were staying the night, and I slept like a damn rock.
I thought Easter was going to be pretty shitty as well, considering my state of health. And it would have been, except today made me realize I have the greatest support system on the planet.
From the moment I woke up this morning, the whole polycule doted on me. Livvy, my girlfriend, headed out into the wild to fetch me food I’d actually eat. Crass, my wife, hunted down my Sylveon kigurumi and made sure I was warm and comfortable. Meanwhile, Gabbi, my metamour, played all of the funniest bullshit she could find on YouTube for me. As my loved ones went above and beyond making sure I was healthy and happy, I came to this really beautiful realization.
We might not share a bloodline or a surname. But we’re family nonetheless.
Growing up, I was pretty close to my family. But after my grandmother’s passing when I was in high school, the glue that held my family together sort of dissolved. I haven’t had real quality time with my cousins in years, and my older siblings and I text maybe twice a year. The only blood relatives I still talk to regularly are my mom and dad, who are, in all fairness, the greatest humans to ever have the honor of being parents. But aside from them, I don’t really have a strong connection to my family, which kind of sucks, especially considering I wanted that kind of connection. There’s a reason I begged my parents to give me a little sibling for years.
Yet I’m realizing lately that family looks different for everyone, and sometimes, it’s your chosen family that’s really there when you need them.
This was a short post — more of a life update if I’m honest — but I wanted to write about how happy my little family of neurospicy queerdos made me this Easter, just by caring for me when I really needed it. I know it’s not conventional or traditional, but why stick to tradition if there are other ways that work just as well, or even better? They say it takes a village to raise a child, but really, we’re all still growing. We all need support throughout our lives. That’s what being with my partners means to me. That’s what being polyamorous means to me. That’s what being a family means to me.
I’ll leave y’all with a song by one of my favorite pop artists, Rina Sawayama, who absolutely should be as big as Chappell Roan.
All I’ve had to eat today is two mini Reese’s cups and three bites of a Tim Hortons croissant. There was a nonalcoholic beer and a virgin Moscow mule in there too for good measure, but for the most part, I’ve been subsisting off whatever nutrients my body has stored up.
And I’m still.
Not.
Hungry.
It’s not that I don’t want to eat. I simply haven’t had an appetite in months. And it’s getting worse.
My mukbang videos would consist of me staring at a cupcake and maybe licking the icing off while crying.
A few years back, I started Adderall as a way to combat my ADHD symptoms with quite a bit of success. For such a scary drug with so much potential for abuse, I didn’t notice any negative side effects at all — except for the small fact that it nuked my appetite. But I didn’t mind at the time. I was pretty overweight due to having just quit drinking in order to stifle a worsening alcohol problem, and getting sober did wonders along with the Adderall in getting me back down to a healthier weight. But now that I am a healthy weight, I don’t want to go too far in the opposite direction either.
So here’s the real scary thing I realized today. it was around noon and I’d been awake for a few hours when I went to grab food and coffee for me and my wife from the Tim Hortons down the road.
Okay Canada, just annex Michigan already.
I was ordering and nothing sounded appetizing, which isn’t unusual. Except I remembered I hadn’t taken my Adderall this morning. Instant-release Adderall only lasts 4 to 6 hours and the XR version lasts 12 hours, which means yesterday morning’s dose shouldn’t have been affecting me anymore. Typically by noon, if I don’t take my Adderall, my appetite starts coming back, but it was crickets. My appetite was still nowhere to be found.
Desperate, I got home and hit the uh, Penjamin Button.
“Drugs are bad, mmmkay?“
Typically I can stimulate my appetite with a certain herb that is legal (and very prevalent) in the great state of Michigan. Today was different, though. I could have smoked enough green to make Snoop Dogg and Willie Nelson look at me funny, and absolutely no amount of THC in my bloodstream made me want to eat.
If my Adderall isn’t what’s causing me to stop eating, and if weed isn’t making me hungry anymore…
Am I dying?
Time to go CASKET SHOPPING!
Probably not, to be fair. My brother and my mother are certifiable hypochondriacs, so it’s not too outside the realm of possibility that I, too, am assuming the worst about my own state of health. My doctors have all commented on how healthy I seem. Like, high blood pressure runs in my family, and I’m at the age where my siblings had to start worrying about it, but my blood pressure is always low. (Pretty sure I’m a vampire or something — it would also explain the light sensitivity.)
Let’s play “Vampire or Just Really British?”
Still, there’s something unsettling about living with anorexia. And that’s what this is, albeit not the anorexia nervosa most people would associate with the term. Anorexia is the medical term for a loss of appetite, and while I’m not intentionally starving myself, I am afraid I’ll start seeing some of the symptoms of the eating disorder if I don’t get some nutrition in me soon. I could develop such nasty side effects as dry skin, bad breath, and even infertility, which is a deep-rooted fear I’ve written about before. Like, not to be TMI or anything, but my periods have dwindled to almost barely extant. And worst of all, I could lose my hair. Female pattern baldness and facial hair already run in my family. If I play my cards wrong, I could spend my twilight years looking like the white woman version of Steve Harvey.
Well, I am already a game show host!
I don’t know what the solution is to this problem either. Forcing myself to eat is nauseating, even when it’s stuff I love. Sometimes, when I need a quick snack, I buy myself a two-pack of Reese’s cups, which are by far my favorite candy, only to leave the second cup uneaten. My wife’s been racking her brain trying to think of ways to get me interested in food again. She’s spent probably well over $100 on fast food in the last few days trying to find anything that will get me eating. Most of it is still in our fridge, languishing. I feel awful about wasting it, but I just can’t bring myself to consume it.
This isn’t the first time an alarming lack of appetite has been a problem for me. As a kid, I was very sickly and uninterested in food for the most part. Part of it was because it often hurt to eat (I was prone to tonsil infections), and part of it was because I was a small autistic child with the taste of a small autistic child. But a lot of it was because I just wasn’t into eating anything. Nothing tasted good to me. And when I got sick (which, again, was frequently), it was even worse. At one point, I dropped down to a potentially deadly weight following an unfortunate flu immediately after my tonsillectomy. I vaguely remember even being turned away from the pediatrician; they didn’t think they could do anything. So my parents stocked up on Pediasure, intent to fatten me up one way or another. My dad would even go out of his way to bring me my favorite food at the time, the only thing I’d eat half of the time — Pizza Hut.
And I mean, I’m still here today. And I’ll get through this somehow. I often think back to just a few short years ago when I wrote about my struggles with being overweight, back when I was still drinking heavily and *surprised Pikachu face* not losing weight. There’s probably a simple solution. My friends who’ve been in a similar situation say they lost their appetites due to stress. And while I personally don’t think of myself as stressed, I do work three jobs (including a new one that’s probably going to be hella stressful), in addition to having classes, several music projects, and two serious romantic partners. My bandmate often chastises me for getting in over my head, and I’m realizing they often have a point.
That being said, I don’t know when things will eventually slow down for me, and part of me doesn’t want them too. I enjoy staying busy, although if it’s coming at the expense of my health, maybe I really do need a break. For now, I’m going to try to be diligent about taking my vitamins and attempt to drink a protein shake every day. That’s what I had been doing for a while, when my Adderall first started messing with my appetite. I made myself a shake every morning to drink with my medications, and I took my multivitamin, and so I knew that even if I didn’t eat anything else for the day, I’d still have some nutrients going into me. I need to get back into doing that.
Anyways, apologies to anyone who reads this and freaks out (Mom). My health has otherwise been pristine, although I am knocking on like, all of the wood. And I promise most of my life is actually going very well for once. I have some creative endeavors to throw myself into, a new job that will help me make enough money to afford the emo cruise I signed up for (IT’S GOOD FOR NETWORKING!), and I have the best support system in the freaking world. I just wish I liked food still, because you could air drop me a chicken shawarma from my favorite restaurant in the entire world and I’d maybe take three bites, tops.
I CAN’T EVEN LOOK AT IT.
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I have severe OCD. I’ve talked about it prettyextensively on here, but I don’t think I truly delved into how cripplingly bad it was at its height. When I was dealing with fears relating to the internet, I wouldn’t even touch a phone or computer without someone sitting with me in case I had a panic attack. In my “literally everything in this room could be used to kill me” era, I couldn’t even take a shower unless my mom was in the room.
Not my funnest era.
As of writing — and I am knocking on like, an entire lumberyard’s worth of wood right now — I have not had any compulsions in multiple years. I define “compulsion” as a thing my OCD makes me do, like demand my mother watch me bathe at age 14 like a complete lunatic. Lately I haven’t had any of that, so by the looks of it, we’re out of the woods! (I’m not going to make another Taylor Swift reference here, I swear.)
But these days, I still deal with anxiety, albeit internally. To be fair, a lot of my anxieties about the world are, uh, justified (I don’t even know which awful news article to link to in order to make that point). That being said. I worry about a lot of things normal people don’t think about. Take, for example, my terrible habit of pre-grieving.
“Jessa,” you begin, “what the fuck is pre-grieving?” Glad you asked, nameless faceless reader! This is when I start mourning things that haven’t even happened yet!
“Do you guys ever think about dying?”
Want me to ruin pets for you? By adopting a fuzzy ball of love, you’re basically investing in a shit ton of heartbreak a decade or so down the road. Like, Krubby is gonna die someday, and my brain literally can’t handle that. It’s not an irrational OCD fear like my old ones — this is something that will inevitably happen. And there’s no ritual I can do to alleviate that anxiety. I can’t beg my mom to sit with me. I can’t Google random words until I feel better. I just have to live with the knowledge that one day, I’m going to lose my feline soulmate.
And that fear extends to everything. I was with Olivia, my girlfriend, for our anniversary. We rented the same hotel room we got together three years prior, when we decided to meet in Kalamazoo, but the pool was closed. And you don’t get between a Pisces and the idea of soaking in a body of water. So I had this idea — let’s go to the hot tub gardens instead.
And it was nothing short of magical. We got there well past midnight, after a romantic evening together. We sipped sparkling raspberry juice and she held me under the stars, so close I could hear her heartbeat beneath the bubbles. At the end of the hour and a half session, we dried off and got dressed and I found myself saying something to the effect of:
“That was great. Even if it’s all going to be over soon.”
It really hit me in that moment. Maybe it won’t be that weekend, or in a year, or in 10 years, or even in 50 years if we’re lucky. But there will be a last time I’ll ever see her, and that scares the shit out of me. The current political climate only exacerbates this fear — I don’t want to think about my sweet Olivia being taken and tortured and killed, and it’s unsettling to think that could even be a possibility. I love her so much, and I don’t want to imagine my life without her.
It’s not just Olivia, or Krubby for that matter. It’s my wife Crass and my parents and my karaoke friends and if I’m honest, it’s everyone and everything. It’s all impermanent. Everything will eventually crumble. And I hate that. I hate that eventually, I’m going to lose everyone I love and quite possibly everything I love and then what? I die too?
There was this mostly forgotten very underrated vaguely Christian emo-tinged indie band called Shirock back in the late 2000s. I was a fan of them — my friends took me to see them for my 16th birthday and I got to sing onstage with them, actually. Their music was pretty good, and I still remember a lot of their songs fondly. But the one that stuck with me the most throughout the years is “Everything Burns.” The theme of the song is that nothing lasts forever — everything burns in the end.
But love lives forever. At least that’s what the song implies.
I’d like to think my love will live on in some way after I die. I’d like to think that should my loved ones die before me, their love will live on in some way too. Maybe it’ll live on through me. I don’t know. I don’t have all the answers. I sincerely wish I did, because that would make this whole anxiety thing a lot easier.
Unfortunately, considering my mental health history, I don’t think this is going away soon, but I’m trying to keep things in perspective as much as possible. As upsetting as it is to think about, everyone dies eventually. It’s natural. It’s nothing to be afraid of. I’m going to keep trying to enjoy life as much as I can, though. I don’t know how much longer I have in this earth. If I use this fear as motivation to spend time doing the things I love with the people I love, it might not be all bad.
If you enjoyed the writing in this post and elsewhere on the site, please consider donating to Jessa’s tuition fund! Any help is appreciated!
What is the biggest challenge you will face in the next six months?
So I started audio engineering school this year. That was the best next step for me after the disaster that was my music therapy internship. And so far, so good! I’ve gotten nothing but As in both of my classes so far, and while I’m far from being finished with this degree, I’m confident I have what it takes to make this one happen.
There’s just one little problem. You see, school is like, really fucking expensive.
So therein lies the dilemma. Ya girl needs money, and I’ve been racking my brain trying to think of how I’m gonna raise like, $6,000 between now and September. I’ve toyed with a lot of ideas. I’ve considered streaming video games, and even tried launching a streaming channel a few times with varying amounts of success. I’ve thought about busking on the streets with my guitar. Heck, OnlyFans crossed my mind on occasion. I do, uh, have a lovely bunch of coconuts.
Big ones, small ones, some as big as your head!
None of these ideas are great, though, and I know this. I think about my wife and how the only thing she’s talked about for the last two months is buying this huge T-shirt printer for her merchandising business. She’s locked in. She knows what’s going to make her money. Meanwhile, I feel like I’m throwing spaghetti at a wall and seeing what sticks. Ideally, I’d earn the money I need for school doing something I’m good at, but it’s hard to monetize the two things I’m actually good at.
I wish I could monetize this blog somehow, since it is where I publish much of my writing. I have made money as a writer before, but it was damn near impossible when I’d just graduated with my journalism degree in 2015, and the climate is even worse now. Between the rise of party press bullshit in the journalism world again, the fact that many writers are willing to work for free, and the elephant in the room that is AI, writing jobs are pretty much extinct.
So I’m going to try something new in my blog posts. At the end of my posts, I’m going to add a section asking for donations. I’ve toyed with the idea of switching to a subscription-type of platform, but the end of the day, this blog is a labor of love, so I want to keep my writing free for everyone to access. But if anyone feels particularly moved by a certain piece of writing, I’d like to have the option for readers to give whatever they deem reasonable.
That’s my plan for hopefully getting a little extra cash for my classes. I’m also looking into additional jobs. I’m far too attached to my teaching and performing gigs to let them go, but I’m interviewing for a position at an overnight vet clinic tomorrow, so I’m praying that works out. (Here’s your cue to pray/send good vibes/make a neat spell jar too — I need all the divine intervention I can get.) Until then, me and my broke coconuts will brainstorm other get-rich-quick schemes.
That’s where I keep all my wild ideas.
If you enjoyed the writing in this post and elsewhere on the site, please consider donating to Jessa’s tuition fund! Any help is appreciated!
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 mixedthoughts 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.
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.
JESSA JOYCE 