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too deep for the intro:
(that one compulsive thought i’ve had in my mind all week that’s never short and sweet…)
I’m not a fan of pocket-watching or making fun of the DHGate girlies, I’m sorry. I’m on TikTok enough to see how explosive dupe culture has become and to see how the real stacks up to the fake. And honestly, all I can say is get it how you live.
Unfortunately, I’m not blessed enough with friends who won’t clock and clown me for having a dupe, so I stick to the rivers (Fashionphile and Rebag) and the lakes (What Goes Around Comes Around and Amazon Luxury Stores) I’m used to when it comes to handbags. But I’ve seen the rise of folks condemning dupes and knock-offs, from shoes to couches, and I can’t wrap my head around this overconcern with how people are spending their own money.
Are y’all activists for billion-dollar industries all of a sudden? Are y’all obsessed with status symbols? Have you not seen that eggs cost a million dollars a dozen and the wealth gap is growing wider rapidly? Not to mention, this country hit its debt ceiling this week and has seen at least 33 mass shootings so far this year. I promise you should not care how a person chooses to spend their coins to make themselves feel happy during these wild ass times.
I’ll stick to letting the chopper sing when it matters. For when individuals and major companies are ripping off indie designers like Anifa Mvuemba’s Hanifa, Destiny Bleu, and Telfar. Now maybe there are some repercussions somewhere in the supply and demand chain that I’m unaware of. I do know overconsumption, sweatshops — these are issues that may be tied dupe culture, making knock-offs a larger issue than I can see. In fact, I’d love to hear if it is. But right now, I’m not going to be mad at Suzette in Utah for buying her Skims dupes from some random manufacturer in China.
I’m in the business of letting folks be happy. As long as your shit is real, why you so worried about whose is fake?
never again:
(things i’m letting go of…)
Y’all, my Dry January ain’t even close to a real Dry January I fear. I was doing so well the first 15 days of the month, but, my, how quickly I folded in the face of some outside festivities.
I hopped on the Dry January wave with the full intention of putting down my usual bottles of red wine and the few shots of tequila I throw back every now and again for good — or at least for the majority of the year — because I needed to dry out and focus. What I wasn’t expecting, though, was the guilt and anxiety that came along with quitting alcohol and then messing up my dry streak.
My relationship with alcohol has changed over the years, for the better. Once upon a time, I was the drunk-texting champ, couldn’t hold my liquor, and became an aggressive little monster after a few too many. Now, while I stop drinking well before my limit in social settings and know not to start an unnecessary war with bae via text, my body rejects alcohol like an unwelcome neighbor who never knocks. I’m not talking about a hangover either. It’s like the night after sipping on something and singing Beyoncé at the top of my lungs, my anxiety kicks up a few notches and my body feels like it needs an oil change. I’m just totally out of whack.
Let’s add to that the fact severe alcoholism runs in my family and always feels like it’s within arms reach. I notice how often and how much I want to drink away a bad day and how hard it’s been to not want a drink during this month. I think about this year’s Galentine’s Day without alcohol, my 35th birthday, summer nights, and all the holidays. All these things are typically punctuated by a little sip of something. What’s the fun in them without it?
What’s weird is that I’ve gone without drinking for stretches of time before the pandemic, so I should be able to cut my losses again, right? Those are good enough reasons to take my sobriety more seriously when I restart tomorrow. I think. I guess we’ll see…
sound and color:
(the songs playing in my mind this week…)
read my mind:
(a snippet of a story i’m working on, or the full story, or a poem. pretty much what’s rattling around in my head…)
“stolen lives”
The apple tumbled to the ground and rolled much quicker than she could chase after it. Shouldn't have been reaching for it anyway. It wasn't hers. In fact, it was 2 a.m. and she was standing in the center of an entire world that wasn't hers.
White and grey marble floors. Curved crystal vases stuffed with pampas and dried flowers. Dead flowers she couldn't name. Framed memories of beach vacations and baby bumps. A year she loved but didn’t feel completely a part of. Each snapshot a few classes away from how she was raised. A thirty-minute drive across town is the entrance to her upbringing: a rundown double-wide trailer that was infested with God-knows-what but consider a decent, livable home for the people she happily left behind there.
She was here now, though. Usually for only a brief moment, but this time, she wanted to stay, to try on this world finally. Would it fit? Could the size of his bank account feel normal? Could she release the fear that she would be found out?
Right now, she was just happy she hadn’t tripped the alarm while sneaking in this time.
Just as she picked up the apple, the lights slowly brightened in the kitchen. But a voice called out from the dark hallway. One she could make out from any universe.
"Mommy?"
thank you:
(a salute to the people and characters who get me…)
thank you, miley cyrus!
Miley Cyrus’ new song, “Flowers,” makes me want to levitate. It’s the perfect blend of pop and soul and heart and self-love. It’s one of them ones that’ll stick to folks’ memories long after it’s slipped from the Billboard charts. I want to overdose on it every time it comes on. I’m well aware it’s a heartbreak anthem. Hell, it’s rumored to be a shot at her ex-husband. But even for me, someone who’s not currently heartbroken, it’s still a profound proclamation that single or spoken for, in any situation, I can love me better than anyone else can.
my obsessions this week:
Target is superior — as are their new Valentine’s Day heart candles. If they’re still stocked in your store, skip the resellers and buy them immediately for Love Day. They’re mad cute, smell great, and you can upcycle the glass.
Just as much as I believe music comes to you when you need it, so do books. For me, I’ve been toying around with reading Crying in H Mart for a minute. I’m just finally ready to read it.
Pink garden peonies are probably my favorite flowers. Right up there with lilies. But it’s looking like Kith for Venus et Fleur’s Le Douze arrangement is the floral situation you need for yourself, your lover, or any loved one this coming Love Day. Yes, I’m obsessed with the green vase.
the shit that really matters:
(a highlight of important stories, events, and subjects i’ve come across…)