“Hey, at least he’s funny”
“Who?”
“Trump”

I said declaratively as if the importance of humor was a universally agreed upon aphorism in the same vein as two wrongs don’t make a right.

“Humor isn’t on the list of things a president should be,” she said.

She looks down at me because I’m from California. But as someone who was severely bullied, I’m inclined to defend the orange man preemptively. He’s not here. He can’t stick up for himself. I know what it’s like to have people talk behind your back everyday for years.

How am I supposed to run for president if politicians can’t be funny? People don’t value humor, and that’s why I’ve always struggled socially. If only I was a bitch, I would’ve done great in school. I wouldn’t have had to hide out during lunch break with a curly-haired brunette widow who was grateful for my around the clock presence in her classroom. But I wasn’t really there. I was daydreaming about all the funny conversations I’d have with my future friends. Those dreams have yet to materialize.

I think about all the things Trump has done for global literacy rates. Nowadays, anytime a child walks past a newsstand, they stop and linger for a minute longer than usual. And all those minutes compound into more time spent reading. Kids today get clickbait fun titles or tweet wars with Kim Jong Un Emperor the IV, and all I got was Nietzsche. Corporate workers clutch a bagel in one hand and a magazine in the other, most likely the latest edition of The Economist to virtue signal intellectualism, as they sleepwalk to their half vacant Midtown office. But at least I’m not from California, they tell themselves.

By 2030, I will be a billionaire.

Embracing this predestined fate that the 11:11 Gods bestowed upon me is not easy. My relatives will feign love during every holiday. I can picture Thanksgiving, everyone holding hands, secretly praying for a coveted beneficiary slot on my life insurance policy. My taxes will go up. The IRS will come after me. Italian cars are difficult to maintain. And anything larger than a Cessna requires not one, but two pilots on payroll. Being on the cover of The Wall Street Journal would put me in a precarious position, one that risks reopening a fresh wound. That girl I finally got over will come crawling back once she sees the headlines. But not only her. Every ghost will be back from the dead. I will be haunted, running for my own redemption.

Keeping these doors closed will become the ultimate challenge. People think that money can’t buy love, and oh my darling, ignorance is so bliss. Money buys access to the right rooms and a foot in the door, just enough for charm to take the reins and work its magic. Money buys a version of love that feels real to someone who couldn’t possibly know better—but no amount of money will turn back the clock to my childhood.

Mother, I’ve tried please believe me
I’m doing the best that I can
I’m ashamed of the things I’ve been put through
I’m ashamed of the person I am

If you break a wine glass, you don’t tape it up, you buy a new one. I can buy myself a bottle of 1990 Château Cheval Blanc, but I can’t buy myself a new past. There’s no price for a pardon. My greatest fear is that even with all the money in the world, I still won’t believe I deserve better.

On creation
after Bukowski

the world is not fixed
I bend and shape my reality
whatever it takes to defeat banality
writing the book that I need to read
creating the company that must exist
making the movie that I have to see
because this was always the plot twist
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
and it's time to let it out.

I’ve called myself bisexual ever since I saw the movie Gia starring Angelina Jolie when I was thirteen. I’ve had enough fun, from Paris to Buenos Aires to Milan. What can I say? I’m attracted to beautiful men and women, the ones with doe eyes, full lips, and the bone structure of Greek gods, but I changed my mind. In school, my teachers said I can be whatever I want in life, so I will be straight.

Every man has experienced rejection. There’s something touching about not giving up and becoming jaded, despite being continuously rejected. If I make a bad joke or if I stop replying altogether, a man will never give up. Even if there’s just a tiny glimmer of hope, they will latch onto this and never let go.

Perhaps a quarter of the guys I’ve gone out with brought flowers on the first date, and the majority planned unique, thoughtful dates. This isn’t an age or a maturity issue. Younger men are very romantic. For too long, I’ve let great people slip through the cracks. Is my fear of being trapped the problem?

In freshman year of high school, it was a guy who got me into Taylor Swift. I had written her off completely, but he was obsessed with the Red album, which had just come out. We would drive around, blasting this album, and now it’s a vestige of my childhood. A time of freedom, when I was left alone to my own devices. The Smiths, The Cure, and Sombr, long live the men who yearn.

Last weekend, I canceled a date with a new guy. My air conditioning vent just tested positive for Cladosporium mold. I’ve been on a spiral ever since. For years, I’ve suffered from severe allergies. I blamed the Los Angeles air quality, so I bought air purifiers for every room. I blamed the glyphosate that’s sprayed on domestic wheat, so I went gluten free for a month. The Giorgio Baldi withdrawals were worse than any allergy. My problem was closer to home than I realized. I blamed America, not my own apartment.

I told him what’s going on in my humble abode. I told him that I need to move out and start a new life. Instead of getting upset with me for cancelling, he suggested buying me charcoal pills and sending me to the spa to detox.

Whereas, with women, you misspell one word and you might as well be dead. Damned if you do, damned if you don’t. Girls will like your stories for three years and still ghost. You call, but they text. You come up with a fun plan, but they suggest a coffee “date” or even worse, a lunch sometime, but everything good dies in the land of sometimes. Each sad suggestion sucks the life right out of you. Never in my life has a man proposed coffee. Romance is a risk. Living is the biggest risk of all. Someone so risk averse, that they’re only willing to commit to a 20-minute sterile cup of coffee over suffocating, incandescent lighting–isn’t my person. There’s nothing romantic about girls who don’t know what they want.

“I have this thing where I get older but just never wiser,” plays over my bedroom speakers. Maybe it’s time to grow up and be serious for once in my life. Men pick you up on time, open doors, plan the trip, and never leave you second guessing. I thought I was too romantic for rules and regulations, but I realize that converting to straight is the solution. Good thing I know what I want, I tell myself. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to meet my Noah Calhoun and write my version of The Notebook.

By nightfall, another girl randomly reached out via a story reply. My Instagram will be the death of me. I met this one at a movie premiere many years ago. We lost track of time and an hour went by over the phone, laughing incessantly. She told me about how she’s bicurious and she gushed over me. I invited her to the same party, and she said yes immediately. She’s from my hometown Newport Beach, so we have a lot in common. Her childhood ex best friend is coincidentally the same girl that traumatized me across four years and a dozen countries. It’s easy to bond when you share the same fond memories.

Towards the end of this phone call, the first girl finally replied to my message. She said yes, she was up for the party.

I was excited about the first girl, because she’s an artist, but more importantly, a writer. Because writers are the antidote to everything that’s wrong in this world. I explained the entire situation in too much detail to the Newport girl. I reiterated that the plans must be 100% confirmed, otherwise I will make plans with someone else. Only in LA, do you have to reconfirm something that’s already been confirmed. I kept the plans with the Newport girl. It seemed like the right thing to do.

Newport girl reconfirmed and started planning the logistics. She also invited me on a yacht trip in the Mediterranean this summer. I told her that I will be in Europe, but I wasn’t sure if I could accept her gracious invitation. I don’t like to make plans unless I know I can follow through.

I couldn’t fall asleep all night. So by 6am, I realized I had to reschedule my Nobu Malibu first date with this guy. He slid into my Instagram DMs with “Notify the other guys that you’re now off the market.” Well, he didn’t say anything about girls… I sent him a voice note to let him know that I might sleep in and miss our lunch, and that I’m unavailable at night, because I am going to a party with a girl.

Saturday afternoon, Newport girl texted that she wasn’t in the mood for the party anymore, but she wanted to play tennis or get lunch soon. The message was full of pink heart emojis, but there was no apology. I reread it, grasping at straws to find a trace of penitence. It’s disorienting how people always say what they don’t mean. If giving your word means nothing, then words lose their meaning. Should I waste more time on people or live authentically and alone?

In my extreme sleep deprived state of delirium, I sent a voice note saying that she should’ve told me that she wasn’t sure, so that I could’ve made plans with someone else. I explained that I hardly know you and you’ve flaked multiple times. The first time this happened, I was gaslit into believing it was all a misunderstanding. In my voice note, I said there’s a misalignment in values and principles. I earnestly wished her the best in life. Despite liking my stories for eight years, she immediately blocked me.

Never trust an orbiter. Or a straight girl.

Clean endings give clarity in a confusing world. Two weeks ago, I had to cut a Victoria’s Secret model out of my life for lying. She was hilarious, so that one hurt. I used to give many chances. Every time, it was a mistake. I regret all the time I wasted, I tell myself, as I spend Saturday night writing in my notebook.

Then, I realized the writer never replied. So I said fuck it, I’ll become a paid subscriber. Actions speak louder than words. I was ready to throw down $500 on a Substack subscription. But there was only a $50 or a $5 option. I accidentally clicked the wrong button—the monthly button. I knew it was over. Call me crazy, but don’t call me cheap. Frantically, I fumbled over the settings, trying to fix it, but the only options were pause or cancel, both of which would be far worse.

The story should end here, but no. The writer messaged and asked me out to dinner. Three times. All I had to do was say yes once. A car crash in slow motion. Somehow, I can write an entire novel in a drunken stupor, but I don’t know how to simply say yes. Instead, I doubled down at what I’m best at, making jokes and spiraling. I made a bad joke that I could’ve glossed over, but no, I tried to explain myself out of a deep hole—and like quicksand, I sunk deeper with every word. I did not mention that commitment gives me extreme anxiety. I did not mention that I travel 24/7. But the loudest words are the things left unsaid. I don’t want to hurt anyone, so I drop a few hints or nuclear bombs. Everyday I fight a losing battle against the autistic urge to overshare, and everyday my chance at new meaningful connection slips further away.

Meanwhile, the tall, handsome, successful Malibu boy ended up at that same, sad party, dutifully hoping to find me. He comes from a great family. On paper, he’s every girl’s dream. He called. He messaged. He asked if I was still going, even though I never invited him in the first place. He’s looking for me. I’m looking for reservations at Wilde’s, Bar di Bello, and any other hard to book spot to impress a girl I’ve never met.

The writer never replied. We are all dressed up with nowhere to go.

wrote with such intensity
my pen snapped in half
on a transatlantic flight
my ink stained arm is a battle scar
i write on a notebook to feel every word
i write with a pen so its permanent
i keep going 
until the callous on my finger bleeds
writing to make peace with my mistakes
to understand myself
to release my intrusive thoughts
writing is the fight of my life
because i'm tired of feeling fucking crazy 

i want to preface this by saying that i like men, in fact i’ve dated several, if sporadic three month trysts count as dating.

last week, one of my best friends was crying to me on a long car ride, san diego to los angeles kind of long. she vowed that she is entering a new era, free from men and free from distractions. but is it still distracting if he doesn’t reply? wouldn’t the silence that we’ve come to expect from men be peaceful in its own right, because predictability is peace. but i understand what she means, letting someone take up so much of your mental space is draining.

she told me about how she hates men and how she is finally done with men, so i offered up a marvel idea, “well you could try women.” she looked at me in horror, as if i had just suggested that she take up arabic to prepare for our upcoming trip. her reaction—she proudly proclaimed that she is 100% straight and i stopped making suggestions right then and there.

straight women tend to qualify their sufferings with “i’m straight but…” and then they go on to describe the most grotesque sequence of events imaginable. i sit back and wonder if she is still talking about that DJ she’s seeing who is “different” or the new Nosferatu film

most of my behaviors don’t make sense. not everything has to make sense. however, divulging the depths of how much you hate men and then exalting your straightness in the same breath—is a new level, even for me.

is this suffering a universal, collective experience—is this what it means to be a woman? i don’t relate to this profound, pious suffering because i have something to fall back on. i can always switch my raya from men to women and back to men again. there is a sense of safety in having something else to fall back on when the going gets tough.

I realize that only liking men isn’t a choice, so i sympathize with all the women who are trapped in this vicious cycle. is being a straight girl in 2025 the worst kind of insanity because there is no cure? or perhaps i’m the one who is missing out on all the fun, because as Dostoevsky put it “to love is to suffer, and there can be no love otherwise”

first off, I would like to say thank you for sending me such an acerbic rejection. the personalized touch seared each word into my subconscious and now i feel equipped for all subsequent rejections that life throws my way

i don’t handle rejection well, perhaps because everything is black and white in my family. you’re either the best or the worst. however, my author friend (a real author with rejections from everyone, including the new yorker) inspired me with words of encouragement “don’t worry there will be many more. you get used to it. trust me it gets easier”

i would like to thank my family for being the source of inspiration behind this piece. and of course, my dear friend insomnia. and by extension, i need to take a moment to thank my therapist for not refilling my ambien prescription

Winston Churchill once said “success consists of going from failure to failure without loss of enthusiasm.” so with great enthusiasm, I would like to share my first rejection with you—

An Open Letter to my Grandma from Orange County

Dear Grandma,

I am sorry for not believing in God. No matter how many times I tell you, every Thanksgiving you insist that I lead prayer. I did everything I could to make you happy. I went to Christian camp every summer during highschool—those indoctrination cults in the wilderness. We sat around the campfire reading sermons and roasting marshmallows. I’ll never forget Christian camp because I lost my virginity there. He told me he was saving himself for marriage and then he swept me off my feet—as in, my feet ended up behind his head.

Like all good conservatives from Orange County, I chose USC over Cal. We had to take mandatory GE courses, so I enrolled in the History of Christianity. I really tried. But your version of history contradicts all of my other history classes–too many gaping plot holes for me to reconcile. The more I try to believe, it’s one step forward and three steps backwards.

I know you’re worried about me living in LA. Don’t worry, I’m not going to get raped by an illegal because all the men are gay in West Hollywood. I want you to know I’m safe here. And grandma, I know you’re worried about the illegals stealing jobs. I realize you’ve never worked before–someone had to raise my mom, and I can’t imagine that was easy. But I understand your fear of losing out on the possibility of a job. Perhaps you’ll start your career at 80. I’m proud of you for having goals.

Grandma, I tried to date a good Christian from a good family. There was Jack from Laguna, and then of course Shane from Newport, albeit the slums section (Newport shores where they don’t have AC, so this one was doomed from the start). You’e worried that I haven’t found a husband yet, considering I’ll be thirty in a few years and senile.

I know you want me to have a family soon. After all, I’m the only hope to carry on our mentally ill, overweight legacy. Having one gay grandchild is hard enough. I can only imagine. You say my brother will grow out of it. He’s 25 now, but maybe if you pray one more time, he’ll snap out of it.

I know you mean well, but could you please stop mailing me bible pamphlets that I’ll never read? I don’t have the heart to throw them away, so I put them inside my TV stand where they pile up and collect dust. My furniture is nearly collapsing under the weight of Luke and John. No, I don’t have bad cell reception and my plane isn’t taking off—I just couldn’t think of another way to end our last phone call.

I love you and I’m sorry for not being a good Christian. You tell me to pray more, so I’ll pray that you never see this letter.

Yours truly,

Taylor xx