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Tucson Is For Polishing The Soul.

Fuck The USD. Performative Reality Is The (Political) Currency.

Saturday Mornings Are When Ideas Breathe.

Never Let Function Override Fabulousness. And Nobody Invited Vegetables.

Mild Dissociation.

TACO Fireworks.

A Sacred Container For Thinking.

The Frequency Of Summer: Shifting From Aperol To Absence.

Deeply Unimpressed, In Very Good Lighting: A Manifesto.

Little Altars Of Joy.

Dream: A Closet Big Enough For A Couch Isn't Enough, I Guess.

I Turn Off The Lights So You Can Feel Your Ass. And Spine.

Micro-Rebellions... Against My Own Systems.

The Rituals That Keep Me From Coming Undone... Lately.

Le Coin Detente.

Hot Take: You Don't Need A Guest Room.

Staycationing Is My Culture.

Sunday Supper: Miso Shredded Roast.

Soft Macabre.

A Deep Cleanse.

Where Did This Absence Of Chaos Come From?

Sunday Supper: Roasted Chicken.

Lime Epsom Leather 35 With Palladium Hardware.

Sunday Supper: Chilean Seabass With Lemon Butter.

I Have Two Conversational Settings...

Refined. Methodical. With Personality.

I Can't Be The Only One Who Does This...

At Least I Made It Through January Dry.

A Space For Rotting.

I Don't Even Have Time To Be Performative. Or Routined.

I Teach People To Purge.

Let The Dry Quarter & The Sharpening Begin.