Jesse: Lol maddy you’ve been high since you moved to Portland.

I’ve needed to be. No one tells you what it’s like because no one you meet knows what it’s like to move to a new town on a whim not knowing a soul there and having never been there before. I mean I could tell you if you met me along the way in making this or any life decision and our paths cross – but in general, at least in my case, there wasn’t anyone around who had ever done it or even heard of anyone doing it to ask. That’s fine. That’s how I met Mary Jane when I moved her and I’ve been one her and with her 24/7 since. She’s the best friend I have here.

We meet at summermoon on the day of the womens protest and I was protesting by wearing a dress and being as girly as I could be while not going to the march because marches in texas- or really just marches in general – don’t appeal to me. Tumtum hum de hum yes I’m a snob and have been accused of being a hipster to boot. Yes. I have a beanie collection got a problem with that? huh? Huh? Do ya?


He was hitting on me – that’s ultimately how we meet – like any good male and female relationship it inevitably begins with one hitting on another – or maybe he wasn’t hitting on me – Jesse I’ve never asked … were you hitting on me? – okay I don’t really care but still… I’m pretty darn tootin sure he was hitting on me… after all he asked for my number gave me his and texted to come hang out that night. Woooooo all the Christian mom’s are quaking in their boots now… what did the good little girl do? Ignore him. That’s what I did. I didn’t feel like hanging out that night as is normal for someone with my condition I just wanted to be alone.

I’ll let you figure out what the condition is… under one condition… hahahaaa…. Don’t judge me harsher than you’d judge yourself. 😉

My room now is a purble milk color with purple accents on the areas that didn’t get milked. Like a purple cow milk of course. I mean obviously.

I miss my old life sometimes. Moving has been nothing but one big harassment literally unfortunate as that is. It really shows that there’s nothing like a change of scenery to make you realize just what a Butt life is. I want to say “sometimes” but no. Life is a Butt. I like butts but Jeeeezzzzzzzuuuussssss.

Morty is life. I’ll let you figure out the rest.




Descovering Ska

The discovery of Ska in a world that doesn’t know what it’s talking about.

We’re bobbing we’re grooving in a legit dive bar, and what i mean by that kids is that when you order a coke with a shot of whiskey you get a whiskey with a drop of coke, all for three dollars though so drink up kids we’re getting drunk.

the picture on the wall is changing colors molting into something it wasn’t before and wouldn’t be a moment later.

“It’s the lines of perspective. Which side looks closer to you? The light side or the darker side?”

“… The darker”

“Really? Because it should be the lighter…”

“Oh yeah… I’m seeing it. I’m seeing it. … Woah.”

There’s a guy up there with a curled mustache that he’s meticulously waxed. He’s been going out to the car to check it and re-wax it since we got here. He was the first person i saw. I asked from the back of the car if we knew him. “Do we know him?” no one heard me but Jamie rolls down the window pulls up slow and they start talking, about i don’t remember because i’d taken a big hit off Rina’s new pin when we stopped by her place to pick her up. Probably took too big of a hit but is there such a thing naw.

Now the guy in the middle, a younger Claude Monet type guy with his shock white beard and subtle plaid green golfer cap on, he belongs among the lilies, and he’s shorter than me which isn’t a big deal for man nor woman since i’m five-ten. He begins singing in another language. A language of the beach. I’m so high I no longer understand english. I turn to Rina after a few beats and ask “Are they singing in English?” because like any experienced stoner; I know that when things seem weird the first thing to do is check in with another to see what their reality holds that’s different than my own. “No. He’s just making things up.” “What?” “He’s not singing in any language.” The confusion on my face remains. “He’s not singing words. He’s just making up words and sounds.” Eye widen. Mouth forms ‘O.’ Rina’s laughing. I turn back towards the stage. *what is happening what is happening* Stun gunned down by the men singing in tongues.

I throw my hands up and let the music take me letting out haphazard laughs Rina and Jamie are ahead of me they turn and look back at me later, later Rina tells me, “I love your face” “Quel?” “It’s so honest. You express genuine wonder. Unlike Jamie and I. We’re just dead in side and make snide jokes.”

people tell me that…

Special Thanks to: Jamie – for getting Rina and I to go out, Monkey – for being my first and raddest Ska band, and Claude Monet – for the water lilies.

Hot-Blooded Portlandia

There’s something wrong with my blood.

“It’s women. They don’t have good circulation. At least all the ones I’ve been with don’t. Their extremities are always cold.”

that’s why we have you, buddy. If women had good circulation we would never go to bed with men. This is why my grandmother swears by heated blankets; thank god she didn’t always have one or I wouldn’t be around.

People leave doors open here and think nothing of it. Noone does this in Texas; there’s always bugs and hot air to make it impractical. But here, despite the bone-chilling wet cold, people just leave them open.

Maybe they’re all wearing something else beneath their clothing. Tights, wool socks, and sweats aren’t enough for me. Maybe they’ve got wool hose under those jeans, but it’s beyond me how the one girl over there is just sitting around with a tee shirt on and no coat. That’s what creates this belief that there must be something wrong with me. I mean just wrong with my blood because obviously, I’m cool. 😬

The real concern is it’s the start of November. There isn’t even snow yet. Maybe this is these people’s Fall. If that’s the case, it’s going to be a long cold December – And no Taylor, I won’t be going back all the time.


Shelby Goes to Portland

Shelby didn’t want to move to Portland, but that’s the thing about humans. They’re always on the move, always looking for more. Of what she’s not sure. Personally, she’s content with a saucer of soymilk, cats are allergic to dairy, and some tuna biskets. Okay yes, she also loved a warm lap to sleep on and a comfortable home to explore. But that wasn’t enough for her mistress.

Mistress worked at a local coffee shop. She was hired for her amazing smile and ability to anticipate customers needs – whatever that may mean. She had a handful of friends and enjoyed the conversations there, but at the end of the night, she came home to  Shelby, sat down in front of the computer and got lost in weird anime. Sometimes she would cry, sometimes she would laugh, sometimes she just sat still with the numb faded look in her hair mirrored in her eyes.

People began to talk. Say that she was wasting her life. “You’re young, you should travel! Man, I would give anything to be 23 again.” Men seemed peeved that she was so young. They got that look of nostalgic regret on their face of wishing so many years hadn’t passed them by. She saw this and it made her sad. Because she knew she would either die first or be old someday too.

Shelby looked out as the miles past by. Sometimes Mistress would talk to her, in her usual nonsense, “I just don’t get life, Shelby. And life just don’t get me.” Then she would laugh at her intentional slang talking. But mostly the silence filled the car. She played music and would sometimes sing out. But Mistress drove in the silence.

Fiona Apple plays on the radio. It’s odd and soothing. Shelby isn’t a huge fan but it does seem to make Mistress happy and that’s what’s important to her. Shelby had tried to make a run for it when Mistress loaded her into the car. She had seen the end coming for weeks. Things trickling out of the apartment until it was bare as strangers came and took things away. For awhile Shelby thought someone would come for her too. But no, she won the prize of spending 72 hours in a car bound to Portland, Oregon.

“It will be alright Shelby. I mean, what’s the worst that could happen? I mean the worst, of course, would be that I can’t find any work have to sell my soul. I guess there’s always dancing. I mean I don’t want to, but technically I could be a sex worker. I don’t know how long that would last. I guess until either my face or my ass drops, whichever comes first.”

Together they drive to Colorado, then back to Texas out of sheer fear of the unknown and the cold, then to Pheonix, then Elk Gove, and then – finally – Portland. The drive was hard on both of them. Shelby struggled to not throw up every hour while still managing to eat. She tried to make a run for it at one of the gas stations in the middle of New Mexico but froze up when she realized she was a strange cat in a strange land. The blue Subaru has become their home. What’s left of it, like the last seed dropped from a tree, to take root and thrive, or be crushed beneath an unknown boot.

They stop at homes along the way, where the owners have opened up their doors to the general public to apply for lodging. It’s a bit of a predicament with Shelby along as cats are not the usual traveling companion. Thank the Lord, Shelby’s stomach aches stopped after 48 hours, could just be because she’s empty now.


Imposter of the Night

I arrived in Portland last night. It wasn’t really night though; it only looked like it and felt like it. I showed up in shorts because the one pair of sweatpants I own officially smell like a road trip. Trust me. I know. I’m wearing them again now because it’s freaking freezing here.

The guy, Allan, who opened the door, after I wandered the street a total loner looking for the Airbnb, and finally decided to try the one that I thought looked like the picture the most, in the dark of the night people will find her, a super tall dude opened the door a crack and glared down at me.

Thank you Portland for weed and making people paranoid of a small little woman like me.

He was determined that I might not be the new guest. “Show me the information of communicating with the host.” I pulled out my phone, shivering mind you because I’m in fucking shorts and just want to curl up and hide, “Here, here” I pulled up the Airbnb application and showed him the messaging with the host.

“Okay. Cool.” He finally let me in. Then just like that, it was cool. He completely ceased to think of me as some kind of imposter of the night. Woo life.