Lonely for one night and 

alone forever 

don’t feel so different


take it from someone who has felt both and 

has felt, also,

the cold hands of a man who couldn’t 

love her


I’ve felt other hands too,

warmer ones and

hands that told me things

that mouths refused to


knuckles that dug deep into the spots that hurt and

I’ll tell you a secret:

they still do.


I have felt the balcony’s sunlight on the skin of my shoulders 

on a hot morning

light playing games with my eyes

up high above the ground

the ground where bad things have happened


from some things maybe

but not from you.


My bird bones were frail and thin. If you’d been listening more intently, you’d have heard them whisper and crack whenever you touched me with your weathered and gentle man hands. Human hands with knuckles and nails and a faded tattoo of an indiscernible shape which held no particular significance to you. I knew this because I asked you once, instead of asking the questions I really wanted the answers to. Even your pinky finger was more strong and sturdy than the little bones I had in my chest, placed there by someone on purpose to protect my most vital organs from things like the weather. From the blow of the impact. From them. From you. 

You liked to wake early and hear the birds singing their songs in the trees above your apartment. The trees I would have climbed to the top of as a child. I was a late sleeper. I’d heard these songs before. I was more interested in hearing your breath and the pages of your books turning slowly as I lay beside you. Your home was tastefully decorated with feathers, but only the brightest. The cleanest. The prettiest. Put on display amongst your books, your art, and you. You thought you might even like to have a bird as a pet one day, but you were so busy with work and with things you pretended were work. What if you forgot to feed it and came home one day to it hanging upside down, or on the bottom of the cage, it’s bird bones laying perfectly still. Or worse, you thought, what if you left the latch open one day and your silver cat had it’s way, or the thing with the tiny bones flew away and never found it’s way back. A new life in the city. A free bird. No longer caged in by your love. Or lack of it.

You wanted a bird of your own your entire life, but when one flew straight into your arms, you could not bring yourself to catch her. Maybe you weren’t lying when you said you liked those things with wings. But you could never fall in love with one. 


Happy Festival Season! Just here to give you a gentle reminder that what may have been acceptable in 2015 is totally NOT OK in 2016. Take a look at some of the hottest trends we brought back from this years Coachella Music Festival including: where to stay, what to wear, and who to be seen with. 

Before you head out to the desert, you’ll need to have plans for where to stay. Why throw away money on an expensive hotel or dirty Airbnb when you can camp in style in a chic and eco-friendly teepee, complete with ferocious bear. 


Just make sure your new furry friend doesn’t get too lit. Bear don’t kill my vibes. 


No time to purchase a teepee and not enough skills to build one of your own (cause we all know woodshop was the best time in high school to sneak to the bathroom and fix your makeup)? Don’t stress. A hollowed out dead horse is perfect for those windy Indio nights. So soft, cozy, and luxurious – you’ll feel just like Leo!

Let’s not forget festival fashion, which is supes important. Come on, none of us go for the music. Feathered headdresses and colonial military jackets are totally on trend! Remember: what you wear doesn’t need to make sense or even be culturally sensitive, it just has to be sexy. I mean who gives a shit about small pox when you’re jamming out with your best babes to these siqq bands you’ve only kind of heard of, amiright? 



Who you party with (and are photographed next to) can totally make or break your Coachella experience, so be sure to grab your prettiest and thinnest friends. Our friend Becky followed her pre-festival-season diet very closely this year and as you can see, it really paid off. Guys were staring at her all weekend! 



And lastly, don’t forget to stay hydrated! It’s important to drink a lot of wine coolers, especially when you’re ingesting large amounts of strange drugs given to you by friendly strangers with colorful jewelry. Sloppy isn’t sexy.





Ruby & Molly




Pity filled the air as you announced to all of us that you were leaving that night.Your mother cried on the couch as your father slammed three doors. Your best friend from seventh grade asked me what I thought it might be like to hate myself so much.

I said I didn’t know.

You thought you needed to find yourself but I thought I’d already found you. I am looking after your herb garden like you asked. I’ll have you know it’s flourishing. I’ve never seen basil so plentiful. You also appointed me to hold onto your record collection and urged me to play my favorites as I pleased. I do. I get up to turn them over when the music stops. I dance in my black satin underwear in front of a space heater on the colder nights. I know that you aren’t coming back.

But every so often – when my bones begin to ache and I have far too much parsley for one person, right about the time that song you think you know all the words to comes on –

it’s fun to pretend that you are.


I was a grown woman once you found me but I acted like a child. You kissed me on that cracked and oiled concrete staircase when I led you to believe that you were the first and that was only half a lie. The upstairs neighbors heard us fight more than they heard us fuck. My dog growled at you the day you moved in. I should have listened to him then but you rubbed my shoulders when they were tight and you said you were sorry when you weren’t. I was terrible at math but worse at loving you. The walls were stark white and there were too many candles lit. Condoms were disguised as party favors in bright blue bowls. I was surrounded by fire hazards and loyal wives. I rid my body of your child before you knew it existed. It seems silly to me now that I still put you down as my emergency contact. Even the greatest sex will not cure 


and anybody who tells you it will has never really been 



Depression does not discriminate. Depression doesn’t care who you are or what you look like. It doesn’t care where you grew up, or where you live now.  It would like to live there too. Depression will find you, and it will cling to you. It doesn’t care how much sleep you’re missing out on. It’d rather you stay awake with it. It doesn’t care if everyone who knows you thinks you ‘should’ be happy. It laughs in their faces when they tell you to ‘choose’ happiness. But they can’t hear it laugh, only you can. 

Depression doesn’t give a shit when good things happen to you. Depression steals the smile right off your face and threatens never to return it to you. Depression does not care how much money you have or what you choose to do with it. Depression doesn’t see how well or how poorly you fit into your societies beauty standards and it could care less how many people fantasize about having sex with you. Depression doesn’t care how many followers you have on Instagram or how many people genuinely love you and wouldn’t know what to do without you in their lives. Depression doesn’t give a damn how clean your bill of health is or how sunny it is outside your window. Most of the time, depression won’t even allow you to look out that window. 

Depression takes hostages. It transforms your very own mind into a prison and it will not let you leave, even for a second.  It makes you feel lonely, yet keeps you company. It follows you everywhere you go, even when you ask it kindly to leave you alone. Depression wakes up right next to you every morning and begs you to stay in bed with it all day. It tries to convince you to forget about your other friends, that it’s the only one you’ll ever need. But depression is not a very good friend to you. 

Depression gets to know you. It reminds you of all of your bad memories and points your flaws out to you every chance it gets. It makes you cry for no reason and then refuses to help you dry your tears. 

Depression doesn’t care how famous you are or how good you are at making people laugh. Or cry. It is an equal opportunity illness. It doesn’t care what kind of car you drive. Sometimes it will go out of its way to make sure you are unable to drive at all. 

Depression moves into your home with you, but it will prove to be the worst roommate you’ve ever had. Worse than the ones who never did the dishes, and even worse than the ones who had loud parties on weeknights and sketchy drug-addicts coming over all the time. And on top of that, it doesn’t even offer to help pay your rent. Depression isolates you. It won’t let you have anyone over but it won’t let you leave to go someplace else. Depression goes to work with you as well, but it doesn’t help you with your job. 

Depression makes you sick to your stomach and it causes your bones to ache. It forces you to take sick days, but doesn’t help to take care of you when you’re laid out flat on your back, unable to move. Depression closes doors, locks them, then hides the keys from you. It makes you want to sleep and then it jumps up and down on your body when you try. It causes you to forget the lyrics to all of your favorite songs and yells at you to shut up when you begin to hum their melodies. Depression tells you lies and then asks you to lie, too. 

Depression does not try and explain itself. It doesn’t want you to ask for help when help is the only thing you need. It convinces you that no one else has gone through it the way you are right now, and it convinces the others who are of the exact same thing. Depression is not your fault, but it will always try its hardest to make you believe that it is. Depression might scare your loved ones away. It might make you a little bit scared of yourself. Depression will make you feel alone when you are far from it. Depression will affect seven percent of American adults this year. Depression wants you to think it cannot be treated, but it can. It wants you to think that there are no options, but there are. It wants you to think it will never end, but with help, it will.

Depression is a dirty, selfish little liar. Rotten to the core. Insane even. The most important thing to remember though, is that there is one big thing that depression is not, and will never be no matter how hard it tries. 

Depression is not you. 


Sharp objects. Shoe bombs. Other types of bombs. 

Quiet children. Unidentified liquids. 

An overwhelming sense that something 

is about to go horribly 


Paranoia. Drugs, 

the kind that would calm you down right about 


Self doubt. 

Books too thick to fit in your carry-on. 

Insomnia. Anxiety. 

Pepper spray.

Stainless steel flasks filled with red wine. 

Belt buckles with the word ‘cunt’ on them. 

Women acting like cunts. Big dogs, 

even those wearing vests 

proclaiming their coveted  ’emotional support animal’ status. 


if they knew what I’m capable of. 

Honey from Portugal in handmade ceramic pots. 

You can bring the pots, I think. 


Just not the honey.  



It was sunny for most of September, but when the rain finally came he felt much better. Grey skies better suited his regret. His apartment was darker than it was outside, day or night. Too much sunlight gave him a tension headache and the steady, artificial glow of the lamps in his apartment was too unfaltering for him to trust it. Nothing in his life had been constant or reliable since She had gone away, not even the weather in Los Angeles. Candle light was acceptable. It helped him to trick himself into thinking he was almost still good-looking when he passed the only mirror in his home. He liked the way it flickered, too. With all of his candles lit, the small and airy apartment was bright enough for him to get around and accomplish things, but dark enough to keep him from having a full on panic attack. In week four of therapy, Dr. Gardener told him to get rid of the Virgin of Guadalupe candle She had left behind, but he still kept it at his bedside. He told him he needed it for the light it provided. It was the brightest of them all. Its reds and greens reminded him that he hadn’t always been alone. The well-meaning therapist hoped the wax would run out soon and he would throw out the colorful glass which housed it, though deep down he knew he wouldn’t. He might keep it forever. It was one of his last remaining pieces of Her, long after the boxes on the sidewalk had been picked up and the cards and letters had been burned over his Weber Grill. The other piece of Her he still had left was the Polaroid photo of him, placed carefully on his windowsill, which She had taken exactly three months before their demise. In it, he was smoking a cigarette in the parking lot outside of the second best Philly cheesesteak place in LA. The first best had been too far. He wished now that he’d just driven the extra fifteen minutes in traffic to get them there. He also sometimes found himself wishing he hadn’t referred to Her as the most beautiful woman in the world so often. Even if She really was. When he stared at that photo, he could hear Her sharp little giggle as she snapped it, the cheesesteak in Her other hand dripping onions and Cheez Whiz. How could it not have been true love? 



Rock bottom is not always a messy divorce or a half-empty bottle of Jack. It is not always a custody battle or blacking out with your arms wrapped tightly around a toilet in the beginning stages of overflow. It’s not always your first Alcoholics Anonymous meeting in a less-than-trendy coffee shop or abandoned church basement where you can’t help but feel like the walls are closing in on you. It might not be the first time you stick a needle into your vein or the incredible calm you feel immediately afterwards. Hitting rock bottom does not always mean losing friends. Or jobs. It is not always burning bridges. It doesn’t always happen when your bank account is severely overdrawn or when your body is shaking from withdrawals before you even recognize them as such. Rock bottom is not always obvious to those around you. An intervention is not always being planned. It is not always a definitive moment or a specific day. Sometimes, rock bottom sneaks up on you. It can come quietly and without warning. It can creep up on you for a long time before you even realize what it is. Suddenly, you just know. You may not quite remember getting there, but you know you’re at the bottom now. Rock bottom might be a text you know you shouldn’t be sending, or a call to someone you know you have no business calling. It might be hitting a curb, driving home from the bar, even if there is no one else around to see it. Rock bottom could be a conversation with your mother or your lover or your boss. It could be a conversation with a homeless person on the sidewalk or a man in line next to you at the post office. It might come in the form of booze, and it might come in the form of illegal drugs. But remember, it might not. It could very well be cough syrup, porn, or video games. It might be your ex-lover – or, and pay close attention: it might be your current one. It might be hamburgers and pizza and nachos. But it is important to remember that it also could be kale salad and quinoa. It could be the internet trolls or the real life bullies. It could be the politicians or the celebrities, but it’s just as likely that it is the average Joes. You can blame whomever or whatever you want. But here’s the kicker: you don’t need to. Your rock bottom is different than mine. Or his. Or hers. You might never hit it, you may never find out what it is. But I hope that you do. Your rock bottom could be yourself at three in the morning with makeup streaming down your face in a grimy bathtub or at three in the afternoon looking your absolute best into the bathroom mirror in a Banana Republic or into a Macbook screen. The decision is the same. The decision is that this ends here. ‘This’ can mean many different things, and there’s no use for a metaphor now. Rock bottom is when you are done. You are done pretending, or trying, or using, or crying. You’re done staring or looking away, talking or being silent. You are finished with the first thing you think of when you wake up in the morning or the last thought in your mind before you fall asleep. You are finished with the life that you have lived so unhappily – or perhaps happily – up until this point. Rock bottom is the moment when you die, or when you start over new. Rock bottom is that moment, sometimes quite brief, that sets us apart from them. Maybe they hit theirs years ago. Maybe they haven’t yet. Maybe they never will. Good for them. It doesn’t matter. Rock bottom has a different affect on everyone. Yours might make you change. It might not. Use your rock bottom. Use it however you want. However you choose. Tell everyone you know about it or don’t tell anyone at all. Scream it or whisper it. Thank it or curse it. Sing about it, write it down, or paint a picture of it. But fall, fall, and touch the bottom when you reach it. Touch it, feel it – really feel it. Decide whole-heartedly and without doubt that it isn’t what you want. Now or ever. Then, and only then, begin to climb back up again.



I know it because of the way his eyes have already turned into shards of glass and are looking straight through me to the wall on the other side or at whoever is standing behind me, as if I’m invisible. Maybe I am. He is looking at me but can’t see me. It wasn’t even midnight yet when he started rambling about how nothing really matters and I caught him looking at crystal clear photos of his hottest ex on Facebook shortly thereafter. He claimed they were blurry. He isn’t an angry drunk. He is madly in love with me when he’s hammered. He tells me he thinks I’m pretty and sometimes puts his arm around me in public. That’s another tell-tale sign. He graciously thanked me for cooking him dinner this evening. I made lasagna. It really didn’t turn out well, but he liked it. Good thing he ate something or else he’d be yakking in the sink by now, I thought. “You’re drunk.” I said. “I’ll show you drunk”, he threatened. But I wasn’t scared. That’s the problem. I was bored. Ah, here we go. His speech is beginning to slur now, but not in the the cute-blonde-twenty-two-year-old-affluent-white-girl-with-doey-eyes way. More in the depressing-forty-five-year-old-man-who-still-has-roommates-and-loathes-himself way. If his license weren’t already suspended from his two previous DUIs, he might try to drive tonight. At least I don’t have to worry about that. Back at his place, the fridge is stocked with IPAs and there are at least two not-so-empty bottles of Johnnie Walker Black under the bed. But he doesn’t know I know about those. Mostly, I can tell he’s drunk again because he forgot why he was so mad at me. I’ll still stay the night with him though. He’ll remember in the morning.