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Emotions
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  • Boobs: body shaming myself doing stand up comedy


    If you have boobs, how do you feel about them? What is your relationship to the fat sacks that protrude from the front of your chest? Are they a source of satisfaction? Do they lift your spirits, or cause humiliation? Do they weigh your soul down? 

    As a dance teacher, I can tell a lot about what you think about your boobs by looking at your posture. If your shoulders protrude inwards and your upper back slopes to hide them, that’s usually because you are emotionally conflicted by the presence of your breasts. Yet if you stand in such a manner where you stick them out, arching your lumbar spine thus compromising proper alignment of the sacrum, I can assume you feel confidence in your tits. There are some women (present company included) that have a hybrid of these two extremes. My shoulders slightly turn in to conceal them, and my lower back slightly arches to reveal them. 

    Our unconscious bias about our sex flaps have major physical and psychological repercussions. From a physiological perspective regarding proper posture, what we should aim for is neutrality. Neither pride nor shame – but acceptance. Our boobs don’t define us as women, they are merely accessories to our frame that should be viewed as impartially as elbows.   

    Easier said than done right!!?? 

    I realized a lot about what I actually feel about my body this weekend when I went to NYC to do a marathon of stand-up comedy shows. There is nothing that will put you in touch with your neurosis like standing in front of 70 people and trying to get them to not only laugh at your jokes, but also like you. 

    For my first few nights performing I wore a baggie t-shirt on stage. In my New Hampshire life, I wear a uniform of sweatpants and baggie t-shirts. Since I dance every day, there is no point in wearing anything but dance clothes, and my dance clothes look surprisingly like my pajamas. I have my night time sweats, my day time sweats, and they are indistinguishable. Even though I put on some eye liner for these comedy shows, my outfit felt very New Hampshire to me. Baggie shirt. Baggie harem pants. My body was hidden.  

    Yet my last night of performing I *gasp* put on a tank top. It wasn’t a super revealing tank top mind you – yet it was form fitting and revealed the shape of my figure. Now why did I wear said tank top? Because it was hot outside yes… but also because it was a hot looking tank top. It was my last night in the City and I thought maybe after my final comedy show I would go “out” with one of my NYC friends to have some party time.

    When I lived in NYC for 10 years, NY Toni loved party time! NY Toni loved to go out dancing. The thing with NY Toni was that NY Toni was always kind of hungry, always seeking something, always looking for who was looking at her. New Hampshire Toni doesn’t do that stuff because there is no one for NH Toni to see seeing her but the trees in her back yard.

    Since leaving NYC ten years ago I have been trying to find a balance between these two selves, but its painful to let go of who you were to become who you are. So, off I went to perform in my tank top that was also my going “out shirt.” Don’t worry though, I was still wearing the same baggie harem pants from the night before because I can’t bother to shower when in the city because rats. Plus I had recently discovered the glory of dry shampoo and was pouring that powder on my head like I was a founding father.

    When I got to the comedy venue, I was feeling pretty damn good about myself. The other shows had gone really well and I was excited about the material. Everything was going my way so you can see where this is going… right? 

    I got on stage in my tank top, took one look at the audience, and immediately I started to unravel. Before I even opened my mouth, I knew it was going to go badly. My problem was that right in front of me was a disapproving older woman. The way she looked at me made me crumble. All my confidence melted like the Wicked Witch of the West and I was left with a pile of my own shame.

    I felt my body and could sense her looking at me, looking through me. I became convinced that this disproving woman knew my motivation in wearing that tank top was superficial. She was aware that I wore that tank top to be old NY Toni even though she is a person in my past – a nostalgic version of myself I can no longer access sincerely. I tried to do my set, but I fumbled, flailed, and spun around in circles like a drunk spider weaving a web of humiliation.

    The thing about stand-up comedy is that it’s very rare for an entire room to like me. But if I can get 2/3 of the room on my side, it can be a really good show. There were many other people besides this disapproving older woman that could have enjoyed me, but she was the trigger I pulled in my own mental suicide on stage. I was ashamed of my tank top, of my body, and of my intentions. It was threw her eyes that I saw myself, even though I was really seeing myself through my own eyes looking through her eyes into my own eyes.

    Every other comic that show did well but me. They were also all men. I watched dude after dude make jokes that were just as crude as mine. The dudes were getting away with things I wasn’t because they were confident and I was so obviously unsure of myself. Just my luck, I had two more shows to do and there was no way I could do them in that fucking tank top. I snuck outside, went to a tourist shop, and bought a huge I Heart NY T-shirt. Of course, once I was properly covered, I killed the rest of my shows. 

    What the fuck happened? Was it me or was it the tank top?

    It was how I FELT about the tank top.

    In the external world, I think I did experience sexism from that older woman. She was genuinely judging me in a way that she wasn’t judging the men. I believe she did resent my body. But you know what? Men are sexist against me when I’m on stage all the time and it doesn’t affect me. If the sexist men don’t trigger me then why does the sexist woman? I was more impacted by the woman being sexist because I expect if from the men, but I don’t expect it from the women.

    But do you see what just happened there? I allow men to get away with sexism but not women!!? Now I’ve turned myself into a misogynist for hating women who hate me and allowing men rights I don’t allow women! 

    AHHHHHHHHHHH! 

    In the internal world, I was impacted by the disapproving older woman because I have been socialized and conditioned to pander to the feelings of the older woman. Both my parents had contentious relationships to their mothers, so for me as a child, my relationship to my grandmothers was through the lens of my parent’s fear. Rather than feeling like I could be myself around my grandmothers, I felt I had to acquiesce to how they wanted me to be. I felt that love was conditional, and people only loved you if you pleased them.

    The reason I was so impacted by the disapproving older woman in the audience was because she was the physical manifestation of one of my primal wounds! As such, I bled all over her, and myself.

    Of course, I could have had the opposite reaction than to cover up like I was visiting a mosque. I could have been like, “fuck that – I like my tank top and this is who I am in my tank top so deal with it!” That is an approach that can really work for women too! Women shouldn’t have to conceal their bodies to feel like themselves. Finding confidence has nothing to do with what you are actually wearing, but how you feel about yourself in what you are wearing. The clothes are the casing. But your attitude is what makes the difference.

    If I felt like myself in a lace camisole I could perform in one, and still be my authentic self. But in truth, Toni, especially New Hampshire Toni, feels best about Toni in loose clothes. When I am most myself, I am wearing New Hampshire Toni clothes. New Hampshire Toni does not seek the approval of the male gaze. New Hampshire Toni likes to be comfortable. New Hampshire Toni things buttons on pants are Guantanamo bay style torture.

    If what I seek for on stage is authenticity, its New Hampshire Toni that I have to dress like.                       

    Here I am… contemplating my boobs

  • The Codependent Gene

    Hi. I’m Toni. I’m codependent. I’m working on it, but only if it’s okay with you? If it makes you upset that I’m becoming less codependent then I will stop – but if you approve – then I will continue. Are we okay? I’m sorry for even bringing this up. 

    Codependence can mean a few things, but one of the main elements is feeling responsible for the feelings of others – at least, that’s how it manifests in me most. Being an empathetic person, I can usually sense the vibes of others. When I intuit someone’s feelings I feel like their feelings are my fault, or my duty to solve.

    That’s the main difference between a compassionate person and a codependent. A compassionate person can say, “Wow, I see that you’re suffering and that you are going through something disturbing. I can hold the space for you and energetically witness you’re processes of processing, but I will not take your problems as my own problem.” Where my tendency is to say, “Wow, you have an issue? Well don’t you worry anymore because now your issue is MY issue and I will take it on fully and solve all your problems for you!!!”

    A drawback from being codependent is that I am an enabler. I facilitate all sorts of negative behavior patterns in others. I can be so desperate for approval that I lay myself down at the altar of their toxicity to sacrifice us both in my unceasing spiral of need to circumvent conflict. I contort my being into the origami expectations of others to fold my identity into a pleasing crane flying into the abyss of needing to be liked. I know. It’s exhausting. 

    Codependence is my instinct! If we were sitting in a field together enjoying the sunshine and you happened to get stung by a bee, my initial reaction would be, “it’s my fault.” If we were at a party together and I was having a great time and you weren’t enjoying yourself I would feel like we had to leave. Your being happy is crucial to my being happy because I can’t be happy if you’re not happy so it really doesn’t even matter at all if what we’re doing is making me happy if you’re not happy so we might as well just do whatever makes you happy so we can both be happy because now you’re happy. Get it!? 

    I always thought my codependent ways of operating in the world came from my conditioning and familial programming. I was the peacemaker in my household, and the youngest child, so it was my role in the dynamic to not cause friction or problems. As such, when I became a parent I wanted to create a different paradigm for The Munch. In fact, the past 9-years of being a mom has been the best training for me to work on these issues. I can’t be a codependent parent because then my kid would be an absolute asshole. If I took on all The Munch’s problems and allowed my codependent reflexes to be my default reaction, then imagine what a dick hole she would be! 

    Creating boundaries with my kid has been my healing because it has taught me the value of boundaries with all people. Kids thrive when they have clear boundaries, and my parenting journey has revealed that true unconditional love actually NEEDS boundaries to make it a sustainable relationship. If I allow a person to treat me as their emotional punching bag eventually I will hit a breaking point and knock them out of my life. But if I have boundaries and express them openly, that’s actually the most loving thing I can do!

    The more I communicate my needs and feelings the greater potential for genuine depth in the relationship. It’s only through my sharing my thoughts that you can realize how your behavior is hurting me and therefor address it. If I keep everything inside and refuse to talk about my actual emotions because I’m too afraid that you will be sad that I am sad, then I’m actually creating distance. The more I fear your feelings about my feelings the greater the chasm, so in order to build the necessary bridge I have to fight my codependence and feel okay if my feeling bad momentarily makes you feel bad.

    In my effort to socialize my kid differently than I was socialized, I have made many attempts to be an example of a compassion, but not codependence. I have tried to model my ideals in my dealings with The Munch. She is having a very different childhood than I had for a variety of reasons, and as such, I made the assumption that codependence would not be her cross to bear. 

    I WAS FUCKING WRONG! 

    The Munch is just like her mom. JUST LIKE ME! She refuses to talk to her friends about ANYTHING that bothers her about them. She will weep to me about how she’s treated, hysterical in her sadness, but will not address it directly with them.

    Toni: Munchee, why don’t you just talk to your little friend and tell her how you feel?

    The Munch: I CAN’T DO THAT MAMA! IT WILL MAKE HER MAD AT ME!

    Toni: Dude, but your feelings are just as important as her feelings. It’s totally okay and reasonable to explain to her that her behavior hurts your feelings when you’re not being treated like a priority. 

    The Munch: BUT I CAN’T TELL HER THAT BECAUSE THEN SHE WILL CRY AND BE UPSET! 

    Toni: That’s fine if she cries and gets upset. That has nothing to do with you. What’s most important is that you practice sharing your feelings and talking openly about how her behavior impacts you. 

    The Munch. I CAN’T DO THAT MAMA! MY BODY WON’T LET ME!               

    My BODY won’t let me! HOLY MOTHER OF GAIA! My BODY won’t let me! Ummmm… did I pass down the co-dependent gene to my kid!? Was co-dependence so melded into my DNA that she has doubled down on this helix of emotional hell? I REALLY TRIED!!! 

    Look at the existential angst on her face!! I GET IT MUNCH!! I GET IT!

  • Some Diseases are Best Left in the Past

    If you read my last blog you are up to date on my current health issue regarding my liver not functioning properly.  Come to think of it, are you really living your best life if you aren’t acutely aware of what’s going on with Toni’s liver. I think knowing what’s up with Toni’s liver is probably the best barometer of success on the market. You’re welcome. 

    As I was waiting for the results of my blood work, I decided that trying breath work would be a good modality to get to know my liver better. After partaking in the San Pedro ceremony (and potentially contracting a tick STD) my heart was pretty open to what my lungs had to tell me about my liver. As such, a woman who specializes in breath work came to my house to guide me through the experience. She and I discussed how the liver is where humans store anger, so our loose goal for the session was to inspire me to connect to my internalized and repressed rage.

    Even though I was very open to this concept theoretically, I was having my fair share of difficulty connecting to my angry liver. I guess the most obvious reason for this barrier is that the anger is REPRESSED. Duh. But there were also some other factors that were contributing. After doing the San Pedro I’ve been feeling relatively serene, like there is more air in my brain. It’s as if my synapsis have stretched to create more emptiness so the breeze of nothingness can blow freely across my consciousness. It’s not that I am not thinking, but more that I am not thinking as much. There is more time between my thoughts while wind flies across the innards of my skull and out my ear cavities.

    I will be in the middle of something, like teaching my dance class, and suddenly have no idea what is going on, who I am, or what we are doing. Did I already do a lunge to this side? Have I pumped my pelvis 8 times… or 16? I am usually so on top of life, like a woman prepared to ride her way to orgasm, yet at the moment my spacey head is more like a swirling galaxy. If this is the price I have to pay for escaping the relentless pestering of my ego – then so be it! 

    The other issue that was preventing me from feeling my feelings of hidden fury was the soundtrack playing in the background. As a dancer I am so influenced by music and the sounds that were filling the air were really upbeat. I kept picture fun choreography. “Ooooo this would be a great moment to undulate!” At one point the breath work lady was suggesting I make sounds to externalize the voice of my anger. She also suggested I punch the mat to release the wrath my liver was holding onto – but the song from Austin Power’s was playing!!! How could I be angry in that context? 

    I then starting spinning into a co-dependent swirl. My internal monologue was scolding me for not allowing my anger to manifest. “Aw man, I don’t have any sounds that want to come out! I’m actually in a great mood! Fuck. Am I letting her down because I’m not making guttural sounds of resentment? GODDAMMIT TONI! Why can’t I make a sound of anger? Oh dear, now she wants me to punch that mat! Fuck hole… I can’t punch the mat! I feel totally at peace! I am flooded with feelings of forgiveness. I am absolutely failing her!”

    But then I realized that maybe the anger I am holding in my liver isn’t actually mine? What if I am a sponge for the anger I am exposed to? Perhaps I’ve just sucked too much in and haven’t taken the time to squeeze myself out, cleanse my aura, bathe the emotions and feelings of others off me. Maybe my purpose on the planet is to be an anger loofah, but in order to do that I have make sure I spiritually exfoliate myself more often?

    All I really want to do with my time is bring people joy. To make them think. To be a part of their self-evolution in order to continue to evolve myself. Isn’t that what my artistic and creative projects are ultimately? Maybe I don’t have to be so tormented? Maybe I can just realize that even though I am not accomplishing things on the scale that I want to, I am still doing what I am meant to do. Perhaps I won’t ever get my Netflix comedy special, but maybe a few people smiling at my videos is enough? I’m already living my dreams. I’m already living my purpose. I’m already doing what I want to be doing even if only a few people give a shit. And with that, I melted into another dimension and lost all awareness of my body. Naturally.  

    Later that week I went back to the doctor to get the results of my bloodwork. 

    Doctor: Well Toni, your tick panel looks good!

    Toni: Oh phew. But what about the tick that just bit me? The one I got tested and that came positive with a tick STD?

    Doctor: Yeah, the bartonella… hmmmm, well… we will get back to that. 

    Toni: Isn’t it crazy that I went to do San Pedro with Shamans in the woods to heal from a tick disease I didn’t have, and maybe I just contracted a whole new tick disease?    

    Doctor: It is. 

    Toni: Does the healing ever end?   

    Doctor: Good question. You also don’t seem to have the genetic disease that I feared.

    Toni: That’s a surprise. My mom did smoke and drink when she was pregnant with me.   

    Doctor: But it turns out you have antibodies for Hepatitis. 

    Toni: OH NO!   

    Doctor: But you don’t have it any more. What you have is the immunity for Hepatitis A. 

    Toni: Is that the sexy Hepatitis that Pamela Anderson has?   

    Doctor: It’s not.

    Toni:  So, you’re telling me I didn’t sleep with Tommy Lee. 

    Doctor: What I am saying is that you don’t have Hepatitis C. You HAD Hepatitis A.

    Toni: So, what’s Hepatitis A?  

    Doctor: Umm, it’s fecal oral…

    Toni:  Shit in mouth!? Am I hearing that correctly? I had shit in mouth Hepatitis?

    Doctor: Correct.

    Toni: HOLY SHIT!

    Doctor: It’s more common than you think. You could have had it years ago. Someone who had that disease prepared food that you ate… 

    Toni: Wait, so someone with shit in mouth Hepatitis had Hepatitis shit on their hands and they then made my food. So, I ate the shit from someone with shit in mouth Hepatitis!?   

    Doctor: You did.  I have no idea when. It could have been years ago?

    Toni: But don’t have it anymore?

    Doctor: You don’t.    

    Toni: This is much better as a story that happened in my past rather than my present reality.     

    Doctor: I agree.

    This is me about 5 years ago… is this when I had shit in mouth disease??

    May 9, 2019 • Consciousness, Creativity, Emotions, Health, Problems • Views: 370

  • A San Pedro Ceremony and my Rebirth into the Cosmos

    You ever go to the doctor and they tell you something you don’t want to hear? I recently went to a medical professional and the doctor kept insisting that there is something wrong with my liver and blood, which I found really irritating. I got so angry at her. I kept thinking to myself, “why are you telling me this? I don’t like hearing this at all!” That wasn’t on my agenda for the day! I was merely in her office to refill my lady cream prescription and there she was telling me I potentially had some disease. A disease!? Doesn’t that seem so dramatic? She was thinking either tick borne, genetic, or maybe I had slept with someone who shot heroine? That’s a pretty wide range of potentials! I tried to narrow it down in my head, but anything is possible. Ticks are all over the place, my genetics are a bit wacky, and who knows if I have some heroine sex disease from my past? I mean who hasn’t slept with someone who did heroine? Someone who hasn’t lived that’s who! 

    I left her office a bit perplexed and with a slip of paper telling me to get more bloodwork done. I then decided to consult my acupuncturist/Chinese herbalist to see what she had to say.

    My Acupuncturist: Hmmmm. Your liver chi is very weak. Blood deficiency too. 

    Toni: Oh dear. Do you know why my liver chi is weak?

    My Acupuncturist: Because your liver is cold. 

    Toni: Do you know why my liver is cold?

    My Acupuncturist: Because your stomach is cold.  

    Toni: Do you know why my stomach is cold?  

    My Acupuncturist: Because your liver is cold. 

    I much preferred that line of thinking, don’t you? The dialogue with western medicine is too narrow – something is wrong with you thus you have a disease. Such a linear way of thinking, like a boner of rationality pointing me in one direction. The Chinese approach is much more palatable because is circular. The ovarian shaped logic that my liver is cold because my stomach is cold because my liver is cold – an eternal spherical insight into my health. I left my acupuncturist with herbs to warm up my organs and then thought about what to do next as I waited for the results of my blood work. So, I did what any responsible adult would do faced with unknown health ailments. I signed up to do San Pedro with some shamans in the woods. 

    I am a firm believer that the reason one has physical ailments is because our “higher self” is trying to communicate to our ego through the language of the body. I felt that higher self Toni was trying to tell ego Toni a message that just regular Toni wasn’t listening to. Supposedly the liver has to do with anger, but I wasn’t sure what I was angry at. I try to be a compassionate person that understands where people are coming from. I often visualize the Buddhist practice of picturing those that hurt me as a defenseless baby to remind myself that we are all victims of our programming. Yet according to my liver, I was angry so I had to let that out! Whatever anger that was inside me had to go! My anger at my family, myself, humanity, people from my past… The San Pedro was going to open my heart to it all… right?

    I didn’t know much about San Pedro, but I have done ayahuasca before because of course I have. I decided not to look too much into it and instead just open my heart to receive whatever the medicine had to teach me. The ceremony took place outside and during the day, which was very appealing to me. I’d much prefer being in nature than stuck inside in some decontextualized setting where I would feel the absurdity of trying to recreate a traditional ceremony inside. When I had done ayahuasca years before I could not quite get over the reality that I was in fact notin the Amazon jungle, but instead in some yoga studio in Connecticut. At least with this situation I’d be in the forest which I found great solace in. 

    After drinking the San Pedro, we all got into a line and walked in a silent procession towards the river. It was about a mile and half journey and the whole time I was trying to keep myself from puking. I attempted to appreciate the beauty around me, but anytime I looked up from the soil, the nausea took over. I kept my head down and kept walking, trying to focus on my breath. It then dawned on me that I had NO idea what San Pedro was going to feel like. It had been years since I had done a new “drug,” and didn’t know what to anticipate. I did my best to exhale my fears and release the panic of the unknown. 

    Eventually we got to the river and made our offerings of tobacco, crystals, and sea shells. We then gathered around a tree to pray and connect to the spirit. The shamans were a husband and wife team which I really appreciated. It felt balanced – both the father and mother energy. They chanted, drummed, talked about our ancestors, and we prayed. I no longer felt sick, but instead lost myself in the quantum entanglement of those who came before me. I connected to my grandfather who I had never met. I did some healing with him and my grandmother around their very contentious divorce. I danced between worlds and held the hands of those that I shared lineage with. The female Shaman started talking about the importance of family, both through blood and humanity. Her voice cracked as she begged us to find our gratitude. My heart broke. I wept at their generosity. I cried tears for their sharing of their ancient wisdom and healing medicine with us white devils. I felt my whiteness profoundly. I sobbed at what white people have done to indigenous people, to nature, to themselves. I felt so much gratitude to bring my ancestors in communion with the ancestors of these shamans. I came to terms with life and death. “We come from our ancestors, and then we return to our ancestors. That’s where we go when we die – back into the arms of our ancestors that bore us. My life’s purpose is to do as much healing as I can of my past ancestors and myself. I then have to bring that energy back to them. The only purpose of my life is to be the best version of myself possible so as to help heal the past, and then to parent my child to be the best person she can be to help heal the future. Death is no big deal. It’s just going back from where I came.” It made so much sense.

    After hours of praying it was time to silently walk back. I hugged the tree and started to follow the rest, and realized, “Holy shit Toni, you are tripping HARD!” 

    I could see the trees breathing. I could see the ground moving. I could have stayed and looked at the bark morph for hours, but I had to follow the rest of the group. I surrendered to my lack of control. I had no personal agency because the experience wasn’t about me. It was about the group. The collective. The family. The shamans were guiding us and I allowed that to be. I kept walking and noticed a leaf. I realized something. “Some people are just born men! They can’t help being born men any more than this leaf can help being born a leaf. They are just men! And men are okay! Men are doing the best they can with being men! And come to think of it, a lot of men don’t rape women. A lot of men don’t beat women. A lot of men don’t destroy nature. A lot of men are really trying.” And just like that, years of resentment, animosity, rage, and disappointment in men just melted away. “Men have something to offer!” I appreciated men in a way I hadn’t maybe ever. Because I have been so disgusted by the actions of SOME men it poisoned me to men. But it wasn’t men that I was angry at exclusively. I was also angry at myself for how I allowed men to treat me. I was mad at myself for what I had done for men. I was furious at myself for not asking more for from men. But men have value. Men are bringing something to this earth that is needed, even if some are corrupted.  

    We eventually made it back to where the camp site was.  A sweat lodge had been built and it was time to enter. It was a cold rainy day, and it was hard to take my clothes off. The mud was up to my ankles and cold. So cold. The air was damp. I shivered. I walked towards the sweat lodge and entered. It was so low to the ground it was hard to sit up. There were so many people packed in, shoulder to shoulder, and in two layers knees to back. I squeezed in and as the next person came in to sit next to me I panicked. 

    “I can’t do this.” 

    I couldn’t handle the idea of being boxed in. Trapped. I quickly crawled out. Afraid. 

    Helper: What’s wrong?

    Toni: I can’t do it. Too many people. 

    I stood outside of the sweat lodge flooded with emotion. I felt terrible. I felt like failure. I was a chicken. I thought I was such a strong person who could do anything, but I was weak. And not to mention, covered in freezing mud. I scrambled to find my clothes. I had never been more ashamed to put clothes on. I could hear everyone in the sweat lodge chanting, praying, and together. I hated myself. I tried to forgive myself. I tried to tell myself maybe I just had to listen to my body. I tried to tell myself it was okay. I tried to fight the fear of missing out. I kneeled by the sweat lodge. I prayed for the people in there. I wanted to support them. I felt like I had let them down. I had let myself down. I was spiraling. 

    Then, they opened the sweat lodge because they needed to put in more hot rocks! I didn’t know they were going to do that! Someone came out. They had had enough. That meant there was room for me! 

    Toni: Can I go in?

    The helper nodded “yes.” I threw my clothes off and crawled into the collective womb. Maybe I was afraid to enter the womb. Maybe I never felt safe in there? When I sat down the shaman smiled at me. It was so warm. So full of love. His face free of judgement. They closed the door and the darkness overtook me. I felt safe. I closed my eyes and it was as if I was in the bottom of the ocean. Phosphorescent lights pranced before me. The sweat started to pour. The heat was overpowering but I was so grateful. I was so overjoyed that they let me in that the discomfort was meaningless. I was enveloped with appreciation for the experience. I was also lucky because no one was sitting in front of me because I was the last one in. Every time the helpers had to add in more rocks, I had to leave the tent to let that process happen. I got to have a break between each of the 7 or so rounds. Because I had this privilege I wanted to be there for everyone else. They were all trapped. They couldn’t leave. But I could. With each time that I returned and we went in for another round, I tried to hold the space for those that were suffering. I tried to hold them with my energy. I owed them that. The man next to me was a big tall man, and to be folded up like that was hard for him. His toe would touch me, or his elbow. For a moment I was annoyed. When I felt his flesh against mine it took me out of my out of body experience. I didn’t want to be grounded by his skin. I wanted to fly away into another dimension without my body. I felt irritated that he was interfering with my desires. Then I said to myself, “No Toni. Don’t be annoyed. He can’t help it. He’s just an uncomfortable man! He’s doing his best. He’s not trying to annoy you, he’s trying to get more comfortable!” He no longer bothered me. I sent him love and comfort. He deserved it.

    In the end, I really enjoyed the sweat lodge. I felt so blessed they let me in, that there was nothing I could complain about – especially considering my position of freedom. Maybe it was okay I didn’t torture myself and found pleasure because then I could be a better support for others? At least that’s what I told myself. As I exited the sweat and smoke filled dome, I was rebirthed, covered in earth, and ready for whatever life had to offer me.

    Of course, the next morning I woke up with a deer tick having bit me. I couldn’t help but laugh at the irony. Did I just to go a healing San Pedro ceremony to heal from my potential tick disease only to contract another tick disease? Hahah. I hope not. But if I did, there’s always next time.   

  • A Tale of White Privilege

    Gather round little ones, snuggle by my side, and tuck yourself into a cozy blanket while I tell you a tale of white privilege. Lend me your ears to hear this glorious legend of how I, a white woman, was able to prevail despite a harrowing encounter. The suspense of my journey will leave you grasping at your own breast, hoping that me, your hero, triumphs despite my hardships. As the protagonist of this epic story I invite you to perhaps take a sip of tea, to calm your nerves, for what you are about to read is sure to shake you to your core.      

    It all began on a Sunday afternoon. I was strolling through the woods with my dog. Excuse me. My RESCUE dog because I’m better than you. How do it? My moral righteousness knows no bounds. I’ll take my Noble Prize later though, for right now, I have a saga to convey. One of my dear friends had come over to promenade my RESCUED dog with me, and we were partaking in some herbal remedy. (We smoked some weed). I had yet to eat lunch, and subsequently got very high. You’d think considering how often I partake in pot, and for how long I’ve been puffing pot for, I’d have a better understanding of how to best dose myself. Yet my shamanic attempts have always been such where I take a little too much of everything. Yes, I’ll have that last tequila shot at 4 am! Whoops, who knew projectile vomit could traverse such a distance? Even though I can see the trees breathing, why not eat a few more mushrooms? My heart’s beating so fast I think I’m having an anxiety attack – but let’s do more anxiety! (coke). I do drugs to the point where I feel like I’m almost dying just to remind myself that I do in fact want to live.      

    I digress. 

    My friend, RESUCE dog, and I eventually made it out of the woods, and onto the country road. As we were walking – discussing how time is an illusion because in theoretical physics there is no difference between the past and future because they are treated exactly the same and how the present doesn’t even exist because everything that happens in the “present moment” is actually in the past because it takes time for your brain to process the data and information in front of it – we ran into another woman with her dog. (Probably just a regular dog, and not a RESCUED dog like mine). Even though this woman wasn’t a national hero like yours truly, she still seemed deserving of a polite “hello.” Yet upon our greeting, I realized that she was in fact, quite distraught. 

    Woman with NON-rescued dog: “There are some dogs down the road that are running free without anyone monitoring them, and they are very aggressive.”

    Toni the glorious honorable citizen: “OH DEAR! Loose dogs! I actually know those dogs. One of them bit me once! I was just walking by, and it came up and chomped on my hand!”  

    Woman with NON-rescued dog: I’m actually afraid of dogs, so I’m turning around.

    I’m not sure if you know this, but my dog is actually a RESCUE dog, so she has some emotional baggage. As of right now, she does not get along with other dogs well, nor can I let her off the leash to figure it out doggie style. I am too conservative for that. Also, because I was pretty high, dealing with unsupervised antagonistic dogs was not on the top of my list of preferred priorities. 

    Toni the glorious honorable citizen: “Maybe we should turn around too? I’m not sure I’m prepared to handle dog drama.” 

    My friend: “Fuck that. We’re going for a walk! I’m going to go tell those dogs to go home.” 

    My friend went ahead and yelled at the dogs to go home – which they actually seemed to do! Emboldened, we started walking again. We passed the place where the hostile dogs lived, and I thought we were going to escape their wrath. Yet we were not so lucky. They must have sensed our presence. The two dogs came barreling down their driveway and started chasing us. Had I not had my RESCUE dog, I could have stood my ground, but I was attached to their object of prey. So, I started running. Did I make clear that I was pretty stoned as well? I rationally knew running from animals chasing you is probably not the best solution. I was only making us more appealing by becoming a moving target. But I was just not emotionally equipped to face Cujo 1 and Cujo 2.

    As we ran from the dogs I realized “Holy shit, I have not run my fastest in a while, and this is intense on my lungs!” Eventually my friend had the brilliant idea of turning around and yelling at the dogs to go home. Her standing still and matching their hostility allowed for me and my RESCUE dog to gain greater distance. We rounded the corner out of their sight, and the dogs lost interest. 

    This dramatic event had us all a bit dazed, so we of course stopped to smoke more weed. 

    Toni the glorious honorable citizen: “That was fucked up. I don’t want to live in fear of these dogs! I do this walk all the time!” 

    My Friend: “I know. They were going to eat your dog.” 

    Toni the glorious honorable citizen: “My RESCUE dog.” 

    My Friend: “Right.”

    Toni the glorious honorable citizen: “I kind of want to call the police. Something should be done!” 

    Now, was I really going to call the police? Of course I wasn’t. That would be crazy. But threatening to was how indignant I felt about the whole affair. We kept walking and smoking more weed. What? I needed to ease my system! Then, as if positioned by the Goddess herself, I saw a cop car pulled over! He was tucked into a driveway trying to trap speeding drivers, but to me, it was like a sign from mother Gaia. 

    Toni the glorious honorable citizen: “LOOK! The cops!” 

    My Friend: “Toni, no…”

    There was no stopping me. Was I thinking about how America is a police state full of corruption and abuse of power? No. Was I pondering the prison industrial complex and its impact on society? No. Was I musing on the justice system and how its flawed morality is indicative of a broken system that targets the poor and minorities? NO. Was I convinced that my class and race privilege would protect me from all this? I SURE WAS! The spirt had gifted me with an opportunity to live my truth, and I went right up to the cop.

    NOW KEEP IN MIND I HAD JUST BEEN SMOKING WEED. NOT ONLY DID I HAVE WEED ON MY BREATH, BUT ALSO A SMOKING HOT BOWL IN MY POCKET! I must have smelled like a Grateful Dead show gave birth to a Phish tour. But I went right up to cop’s window, despite my friend’s objection. 

    Toni the glorious honorable citizen: “Excuse me officer? I was just walking my RESCUE dog, and my friend and I got chased by two loose dogs. I don’t want to get anyone in trouble, but is there anything you can do to communicate that this was a problem? I am an upstanding honorable member of this community and all.”

    The Police Officer: “Sure Ma’am. Can I just get ALL your information including your address and phone number?” 

    Toni the glorious honorable citizen:  “You sure can!” 

    All the while my friend is losing her shit. For from her perspective I was literally blowing weed into this cop’s face, but from mine, I was letting the law know my rights had been infringed upon!  I know. I’m so brave.

    Here is Luna… the RESCUE dog I so selflessly adopted.

  • You Will NEVER Get What You Want

    What do you want most in the world? Close your eyes and picture it. Is it love? The caress of a person you long for to be eternally devoted to you? Is it success? The accomplishment of settling into your ideal career, or getting the job of your wet dreams? Is it money? Being so wealthy that you can use dollar bills as toilet paper? Which, btw, I do not recommend because that’s one hell of a place to get a paper cut. Is it the perfect body? Being so chiseled you could cut steak with your abdomen? What is it? Let your greatest desire, your deepest want wash over you. Do you have it in your mind’s eye? Are you holding that yearning in the palm of your hand? Stroking it like a flaccid soldier you want to harden for action?   

    Now guess what?

    You will never get it. 

    You will never get what you want. 

    Ever.

    I’m not saying what you want won’t happen. It’s absolutely possible that it will happen. But once you get what you want, you will not want it anymore. Not in the same way. The wanting will evaporate. The initial bliss will be replaced by being accustomed to having what you wanted. You will get used to it, and it will be impossible to remember the yearning of before. What you wanted will no longer be a desire, but a familiar part of your life that is taken advantage of, unappreciated, and expected.

    I used to want to be a published writer. Salon published my first article 7-years ago. I then wanted that article to be read more than it was. After that, I wanted to write for other publications. I did. But then I wanted my articles to go viral… frowny face. I got sick of writing for other people so I started writing movie and TV scripts. I made short films. I wanted my scripts and films to get into festivals. They did. Then I wanted my scripts and films to win awards at festivals. They did. Then I wanted some Hollywood big wig call me on the phone to tell me, “You’ve got the goods sweetheart. I’m buying you a ticket to tinsel town.” Still waiting.  

    I once wanted a boy. I got that boy. He annoyed me. I wanted to be free. We broke up. I was lonely. I wanted long hair. I grew long hair. It got tangled. I wanted change, I got bangs, too much change. I wanted to start a business. I started a business. It was stressful. I wanted chocolate crepes with strawberries. I made chocolate crepes with strawberries. I ate too much.

    You will always have something to complain about when you are in the mindset of complaining. You can always find problems. You will always want the next thing. What you have will never be enough. Nothing will ever satiate the deep need for more that lives within us. 

    Unless you are an enlightened being, of course, which in that case, groovy. 

    I am currently not enlightened, so this paradigm is something I struggle with from time to time (every day). Yet I am aware of it, and that awareness makes it less painful (not really). Contentment is a very hard emotion to cultivate, and even harder to maintain. Yet contentment is what we all need more of. Not perfection. Contentment. 

    Maybe that’s not the sexiest concept? How are you today? I’m content. You don’t hear that very often. But we should. That is what she should be seeking. Not happiness. Happiness is an ethereal fairy that drifts around indiscriminately like a floating dandelion seed. A more reasonable expectation of life is having total acceptance for what is and an apperception for what’s in front of you.

    Gratitude. 

    Feeling genuinely grateful. 

    Yet you have to remind yourself to feel grateful. Daily. I don’t think gratitude is our default operating system. I think we have to upload it every morning. Have rituals to connect to it. My personal strategy to access gratitude is listening to 90’s hip hop or smoking weed in nature. We all have our methods. What’s yours?   

    Look how tangled that long hair is!

    March 7, 2019 • Ambitions, Change, Consciousness, Emotions, Musings, Problems, Relationships • Views: 631

  • The Perfect Metaphor For Life


    How do you feel about the day of your birth? Do you enjoy being celebrated? Do you relish in being the hot dog for a day and nestle betwixt the buns of your personhood? Or does the concept of aging cause anxiety? Do you fear your imminent death and want to shove your head into the sands of time in order to avoid thinking about the unforgiving truth that soon you will be consumed by soil as worms slowly engulf your rotting flesh?

    My particular birthday falls in a strange vortex of time – December 29th– this piercing eye amidst a cyclone of holidays, vacations, celebration, and darkness. There is a collective expectation for fun during this season, anticipation hangs in the air, and a mutual yearning coats those winter weeks. This particular year – as the day commemorating the glorious moment where I blasted out of my mom’s sacred internal oven approached – I began to feel an intense pressure. I was stalked by an unrelenting need to do something out of the ordinary. Something spiritual, something mind blowing, something that would shake up my consciousness and dip me into the quantum soup of our so-called reality which is actually just a hologram projected onto a screen of mutual mass illusion.

    My first plan was to drink ayahuasca. I wasn’t particularly in the mood to do so, but there was an opportunity to. I have done ayahuasca before because of course I have I’m a white hippy, and a friend invited me to a ceremony that happened to be taking place on that exact day that I was spewed from my mother’s womb. Yet I had my reservations because I didn’t feel the personal needto look into the black eyes of my demons and crawl into the ceaseless vacuum of inner darkness that layers my soul, but I would have. Sadly, however, that event was cancelled, and I was left with no plans. Then another friend invited me to a Kambo ritual, which in case you’re not familiar, is the psychedelic frog medicine where a shaman burns the amphibian’s venom into your skin and you spend the next half hour or so vomiting and shitting out toxins – which sounded like a real party. But sadly for me, I had just gotten mercury fillings removed from my mouth and had spent the day taking benzos at the dentist the day before the Kambo was going to take place. I guess sedating yourself on medical grade heroine isn’t the best recipe for spiritual enlightenment produced through anal leakage, and I couldn’t participate in that event either. 

    I was starting to panic. I didn’t know what to do to satiate my yearning and had no idea how to spend the day venerating the instant where I disgorged from my mother’s birth canyon. I knew I had a feeling of wanting to connect to something larger than myself but was unclear how to accomplish that. I couldn’t ignore this feeling of restlessness. I yearned to dive into myself, to uncover a new layer. Tormented by this need I smoked a little weed and went for a night walk around the lake by myself with my dog, Luna, hoping I would figure out what to do with myself. The moon was full, it was the winter solstice, and the season had just turned to Capricorn. It was as cold as a witch’s tit, and the wind was unyielding. I walked around thinking about nothing important (myself) and contemplated this and that (me and more me). 

    Eventually I made my way to the graveyard and tromped through the snow to find the familiar place where my best friend Bitty’s grave is. I kneeled down and pressed my forehead against the bird bath which marks her gravestone, allowing the essence of her energy to enter my 3rdeye. I decided to listen to some music and put on my “Bitty playlist” of songs that all reminded me of her. The vibrations reverberated from my headphones and I entered into a trance as our favorite song from childhood, “Like a Prayer,” played. I started singing to Bitty so she could hear it too. The next song was “Tennesse” by Arrested Development, which in case you haven’t heard that one in a while, is worth the listen. I was moved to get up and dance. The song “Scatman” was next – a stupid club song that Bitty and I danced to at the disco in Hungary when we were 15. I closed my eyes and could see perfectly clearly the way she danced in my mind’s eye. How she’d turn her arms into a snake like a Michael Jackson video we loved. How she smiled at me, a drunken sloppy smile as we threw our bodies around to the beat. I could see it effortlessly – a memory come to life. Then the timeless romantic tune “Gimme that Nutt” by Easy-E was blasted through. I still remembered every lyric (Bitty and I memorized the whole song) and again felt compared to share out loud these tender words as I danced.   

    “That dick you know what so roll over girl while I stick it in ya
    But I’ll turn it wild while I’m ridin’ that ass scream and shout
    My name is the same
    Just another pussy that I had tah tame soooooooo…”

    My ego subsided and I lost myself in my own ceremony – a personalized ritual and ecstatic observance of the holy. In that moment I was unwatched by anyone, even myself. The memory of Bitty blended into what it was actually like to be around Bitty – like we were hanging out again. I danced for hours with her that night. Pounding the ground of her grave with the stomping of my feet. I had assumed the cure to my existential angst was some substance-induced experience to catapult me into the space time continuum, but what I really needed was to spend time my best friend again. To allow the connection to feel alive. Letting myself love Bitty is how I unite with the divine. She is my spiritual practice because she is my god source. She’s part of the mystery of death, the unknown of the eternal. Spending time with Bitty’s spirit is like a cleansing of my cells. It shakes me to my core and wakes me up to life. I deeply I miss my best friend, and that’s not something I always let myself feel because it’s so much to carry. I can’t always find the state of mind where it’s possible to truly open up and connect to her. That’s why I seek the guidance of psychedelics to push me over the edge. Yet that night alone with my dog under the full moon, I allowed all the feelings to flow through me again. These emotions I so often contain and repress because to really feel them is almost unbearable – how much love can hurt when you can no longer make new memories with someone. Yet there I was, on December 22nd2018 dancing with the gravestone of my best friend Bitty, making new memories with her spirit.   

    After that night I no longer cared about my birthday. I no longer felt that internal push. I was calm, almost serene. The holidays floated by in a daze and on the day of my birth, the day I was putting so much pressure on, I barely did anything. I made a video about my new bangs and played one continuous game of “Chutes and Ladders” with my kid for 2 hours. It was the most epic game of “Chutes of Ladders” ever played. Neither of us could win. We’d get so close to the final square, but then down a slide we’d go. We’d go from the top of the board to the bottom of the board again and again and again in an incessant feedback loop. After about the 70thtime I realized that “Chutes and Ladders” is the perfect metaphor for life and is preparing kids for their inevitable future. You go up, you go down, you go up, you go down, you go up, you go down. That board game is the most brilliant physical manifestation of existence ever created. Our inability to get to where we wanted to go was pushing us to the limits of sanity. We started screaming at the board. I began to sweat with frustration as my eyes blurred from fatigue. I was unable to comprehend how many times we’d fall down those damn chutes. I may not have had the drug inspired birthday I was seeking, but that game of “Chutes and Ladders” was truly shamanic.

    PS I won. 


    February 28, 2019 • Adventures, Emotions, Family Drama, Musings, Old School Stories, Playing • Views: 298

  • Sex and Romance Tips: To Enforce Gender Roles

    My friend recently sent me some “sex tips” from an app, which seems about right for these modern times. Just what we need right? Sex and romance tips straight from the mouth of a phone! Soon your lover will be asking, “where did you learn to do that trick with your tongue and toe?” And you will coyly reply, “oh, that little old thing? From an app! And that wasn’t my toe silly, it was my liver.”  

    What a world we live in. Forget the Karma Sutra. Too much reading. And whatever happened to the Joy of Sex? Does anyone on this porn infested planet ever get that book anymore? Do you remember this delightful body of work? I can’t be the only kid that found that gem in my parent’s bedside table, marveling at the complexity of those drawings. I especially enjoyed the detail paid to hair.   

    But in today’s times, we turn to tech to fulfill our needs and curiosities about humanity, hence the sex tips app. My friend didn’t send these glorious guidelines of how to please a lover because she thought I needed the advice, but rather to laugh at the absurd gender implications associated with each so-called “tip.” 

    Here is the suggestion for how men should treat their women.

    The implication here is that “chores” are women’s work, therefor helping with these annoying aspects of life delegated to her will make your lady so sopping wet that she’ll let you slip and slide right inside her. Let’s not question the hideous expectation that often the woman’s role in the relationship is to deal with the mundane activities of “chores” (despite her most likely working too considering the current economic environment). Don’t over think this silly discrepancy fellas, and instead occasionally help her out with the sole purpose of getting your dick moist. Classy stuff.

    Let’s move on to the suggestion how women should get their men off!

    Wow. So much to unpack here. In order for the lady to entice her man, she doesn’t have to go through the silly charade of doing “men’s work.” She’s not expected to break out her Allen wrench or get under the sink to tighten the plumbing pipes. NO! That would be absurd! She should bow down to his penis and genuflect to all its glory while taking him in her mouth as he stands over her like a king! If you want your man to want you, allow him to feel his power as he thrusts his boner into your gagging throat because he deserves the royal treatment! That will get his attention! 

    There was so much that enraged me about this! How in 2019 is this the gendered propaganda being inserted into our psyches? Why pump this outdated hype into our brains? Who is this flaccid thinker that thought these tips were accurate depictions of how we should be relating to each other? I mean seriously, what archaic sexist assumptions gliding in and out of our minds. Also, it’s actually not that bad advice. 

    I mean…. I do really like it when dishwasher is unloaded when I wake up in the morning, and I’m sure any guy would enjoy an impromptu BJ on an imaginary throne or standing over you like the god he wishes he was. Exactly what’s so fucked up about this is how equally true it is. We are so embedded in our cultural programming that we can’t escape the data circuits fusing into the most primal aspects of self. You’d think sex, the most animalistic act we engage in, would be safe from the conditioning of society – that there would be something sacred about this sacrosanct act. Yet no. Our sexuality is predicted by the paradigm we exist in. We might as well admit that we are androids of our own making, unable to detangle the influence of society on the strings of our synapsis. 

    These sex tips are attempting to illicit romance and connection with you and your partner, but romance is an illusion stemmed from the bouquets of our collective fairytales. The stories we tell to each other define the stories we want to create in our own lives. There is nothing particularly sexy about flowers beyond the expectation that they should feel that way. There is nothing inherently romantic about any of the gestures we make. Unless you fell in love 2-weeks ago, romance is mostly a forced feeling we think we should be experiencing. If you’re in a long-term relationship looking to feel like you did when you first fell in love, well guess what? It’s not going to happen. No “tip” is going to bring back the unbridled desire you had when that person was still a mystery to you. The lust of not knowing someone very well is romantic because romance is predicated on the fantasy you’re projecting onto them. All the love and sex tips we receive are essentially caca manipulating you to think you’re not the mercy of your indoctrination.  

    PS

    HAPPY VALENTINE’S DAY!

    February 13, 2019 • Cultural Commentary, Emotions, Relationships, Sex Stuff • Views: 846

  • The Pointlessness of Arguing

    For the past 15 years I’ve been slapping my opinion onto the collective table of the internet. I’ve dealt a variety of different cards during this time – sketch comedy, music videos, stand up, written blogs, memes – shuffling through my consciousness in a desperate attempt to be heard. Why I have this compulsion to broadcast my thoughts is not exactly clear. The short answer is obviously because I feel like I have something to say and the long answer dates back to my childhood insomnia fueled by a quantum entanglement with my father so we’ll just leave it at that.

    When you feed yourself to the wolves you can’t complain about getting eaten alive. I’ve learned to grow a dense hide in order to protect my ass from the hate. There are times I create something and receive nothing but praise (thanks mom!) but there are plenty of other times my work tickles the taint of those that don’t share my view point, humor, or politics, and I am then flooded with a deluge of zealous condemnation.

    I recently made a video entitled “Is that Rape?” inspired by the adorable Brett Kavanaugh and his charming “who cares if I assault women” attitude. I knew when I made this video that not everyone was going to clap their chubby little hands in approval, and boy was I not mistaken. I got plenty of comments calling me a “libtard” to remark on how dumb and how unfunny I am, with even some really sweet annotations wishing violence upon my being. The internet is so cute!

    To me the problem isn’t that people disagree, it’s how they disagree.

    If you think about our educational system, there isn’t a lot of emphasis on learning the art of dialogue. In the times when the Greeks were developing the concept of democracy, the process of dialogue was HIGHLY regarded as one of the most crucial and pivotal personal aptitudes. Socrates’ entire philosophy was based on the importance of dialogue. He didn’t concern himself exclusively on what the topic of the discussion was, but rather how the topic was discussed. He encouraged a deep knowledge of how to have a conversation because the contents of that conversation were of lesser importance.

    So, what happened? America boasts that we’re the “greatest democracy in the world” (we’re not) and yet there is zero attention paid to the most basic and fundamental principal of democracy. How can the people rule when the people can’t talk to each other? I find myself getting into arguments with humans I mostly agree with simply because they don’t know how to have a productive session of listening and exchanging. Don’t you feel like it’s time we make the art of dialogue a priority again?

    No one knows how to argue because very few people are open minded enough to allow their consciousness to expand. When you have a political view, or some moral commitment, you tend to build a narrative that supports your thinking. We construct our reality in order not to challenge our construction of reality. Once you have committed to seeing the world in a certain way, you are often too afraid to re-think your thinking because then what does that mean about the reality you’ve created around it?

    But here is the issue. You can create any reality you want. I could just as easily create a reality where Brett is a victim of nasty liberal feminists trying to take him down because of their venomous ways, as I could the reality that he is in fact quite rapey and has no place on the Supreme Court (much like Clarence Thomas). There are plenty of “facts” out there to support either position.

    Where we are failing each other is not acknowledging that everyone’s reality is valid to them. Even those that we vehemently disagree with, they still have a sense of reality that’s based on logic. Their logic may seem crazy pants to you, but it’s logical to them. When we act like the other side is just a bunch of dumb dumbs without rational for their viewpoints we are ignoring an unavoidable truth. 99% of people have REASONS they think they way they do, and if you’re not curious about their reasons and instead just toss insults and disdain we will never have constructive dialogue.

    Everyone’s relationship to reality is born from the data and processing power in front of them. There is a reasoning system that humans apply which means that all points are valid, regardless of how much they might enrage you. That’s not the point. The point of dialogue isn’t to think someone’s an idiot for seeing the world differently than you, but rather to have a dialogue deconstructing why. We are ALL the consequences of our programming. We have all been conditioned by our parents, society, and our life experiences. The question then becomes how do you take that reality internally and implement it externally? There has got to be a better way than calling people “cunts” on the internet.

    What if we argued less and talked more? What if we understood that we’re all victims of structures of power, and that even those supporting these high-rises of oppression are still slaves to it? What if we stopped wasting all this energy screaming about who’s right and instead worked towards a greater understanding of what’s to be done?