wisteria lane

you know the place i’m talking about. a couple blocks off your grandmothers’ old house, where time seems to stop. and the mansions just grow larger; the lawns greener, in a world where money was never the question. it was the answer.

and the festering sickness in my mind could be erased in a few convincing words; and suddenly there’s nothing left of me but what i have heard.

and yet still; i’ll climb up the trees when no one’s looking, reaching desperately towards the sky with all the hope i have left in me. even long, long, after you’ve locked the door. and thrown away the key…

because you know the place i’m talking about. a medium-sized property with the most beautiful garden, where every last piece of you will someday fade away.

and it’s strange. you’d think, by this point, memories like these would finally give up and leave me alone. but… they won’t. and instead, they haunt me, all stained a deathly grey.

As some of you who’ve been following this blog since the very beginning know, my grandma has dementia–I used to write about it a fair bit during the early days of this project.

I’ve been pretty up-close with her decline–she started to really show symptoms around when I was eleven, the summer before I would start seventh grade.

In some ways, I guess I’m glad that I got to be there and see that; however heartbreaking it was–because it shaped a lot of my writing, and how I see the world. But… it also made me very aware of death from a young age, and honestly, it was pretty difficult to process as an eleven-year-old.

Pre-dementia, I never had a particularly good relationship with her–she was fairly withdrawn and formal around me, and I only went over there when my mom had to work and there was nowhere else to go. Most of the time, I’d bring a giant bag of library books and work through them all throughout the day; hiding up in the guest room. Sometimes, we’d do puzzles, or she’d help me work through math problems for school, or maybe just maybe we’d go on walks to the ocean. And then I’d go back home, and I probably wouldn’t see her for another six months or so. She was always a very formal, logical person, and I was always far too wild and emotional for her to truly understand. So how am I supposed to mourn a relationship I never really had?

I saw her a couple days ago–she’s in a home now, so we’re only allowed to see each other through the window–which was definitely hard, but it was still something. I cried a lot. Because I don’t know in all honesty how much longer she has left to live; probably only a year or so. I don’t even know if she knows who I am. But we read her Alice in Wonderland, and she smiled, even if didn’t have the words for what she was feeling. And I think that’s all I can ask for.

Lots of love,


when it rains, it pours

we’ve got five seconds. until we’re going overboard.

and my heart… my heart is wound up in string. it is the pelican on tv, caught up in discarded fish netting. yet another fucking sign the world is ending…

we’ve got four seconds, now. so please just know that i’m sorry. and i’ll fix this. i promise… just be patient with me…

three seconds. time is running out now, and i can’t stop hyperventilating. i thought we were safe now, but i guess the times are changing.

two seconds. the water rises. and i can’t speak clearly. so i’ll scream, goddammit. so i’ll flail about in the ice-cold water frantically. because whatever happens, i won’t go out silently.

one second. you’ll offer me a lifeboat, but i can do it myself. and i refuse to let anyone help me.

so when it rains, it pours. and when i wash ashore, completely numb, please don’t make a big deal out of it. i know what i’m doing.

These days, it’s hard not to feel like the world is ending.

I grew up on a steady diet of financial dramas, BBC documentaries, and climate change films. I’ve seen so many, it’s insane. If you ever want to just talk to a walking directory of climate change documentaries, feel free to hit me up.

And partially as a consequence of seeing these so young, I’ve always grown up with the vague assumption that I am probably not going to live past 30. Whether it be because of food shortage, or war, whatever, you name it. Whether or not that assumption is true or not, I don’t think it matters. The point is, that’s how, in the back of my mind, I have always planned my life. Doesn’t mean that the prospect of my premature death makes me happy, but I still think it’s likely.

Maybe that’s why I’ve pursued success at such a young age. Because if I’m not a global sensation by the time I’m eighteen, I mean, what’s left for me? I’ve failed. Even if all along, I was set up for failure, I failed. As I see it, I’m already halfway through my lifespan.

I think in so many ways, young success is Gen-Z’s ideal. Our influencers on social media, our musicians, the activists we might look up to… how many of them are under 25? Maybe it’s just who I follow, but a fair majority of them aren’t far over twenty, and older creators generally favoured by my generation feel like the exception, not the rule.

In no way am I saying that those people aren’t absolutely badass and amazing, or that honing your craft at a young age isn’t impressive and wondeful, because as a young creator, however small, I’d be a hypocrite to say that. But I also feel like when no one ever acknowledges it, it can be toxic; and it’s also just a very interesting part of my generation’s culture to me.

I don’t know how much of this is a girl thing, how much of this is a teenager thing, and how much of this is a Gen-Z thing, but, I don’t know, it’s something I felt like unpacking.

Lots of love,


there is a mouse in my attic

i hear it, skittering around at night. feel it gnawing on my fingers while i sleep sometimes. and when i wake up, there is blood on the sheets. but it’s all right…

i see it, out of the corner of my eye. its teeth sharp; red eyes glowing in the dark. it is quiet, and polite. and it reminds me of myself sometimes.

on those endless, burning summer nights. when i stare into the mirror, and i look like someone else. but maybe i’m tired… maybe it’s just a trick of the light…

i can feel it. as the the mouse scrambles up onto my shoulder, and stares back at me, smiling crookedly.

and i hate it. as i lie still as a statue, allowing it to deconstruct my body. tunnel swiss-cheese holes into my chin, as it chatters happily.

but… maybe i can’t help but love it, too. in all honesty.

I feel so broken, sometimes. And I think the worst part is, that in all honesty, I’m not good at hiding it. In theory, I’m sure I could–but I’m too busy for that, and also a shit liar.

In my mind, though, I am a careerwoman. A beautiful, golden success. I am professional, kickass,, and okay, and keep mental health as far away from my work life as possible.

In reality, though, I mean… I did a little gardening gig for a family friend a few weeks ago, and he would always offer me water, on these really hot days when I’d been in full sun for hours on end. And I’d always say no, until I literally thought I might pass out. I worked faster and faster, out of fear of costing him too much money. I purposefully put out my back one time. And I couldn’t help but get obsessed over these little things that weren’t quite right, and what started out as “attention to detail” quickly became toxic perfectionism. I don’t know if he noticed or cared; could see my mess of a mind peeking out from beneath the paperthin mask, but it made me feel awful.

You know, it’s funny. I’ve only cried in front of my best friends a couple of times. I cry in public a fair bit to be honest–potentially more than I cry in my house. (By public, I mean at nine o’clock on my street with two people in sight, but still.)

And yet in front of friends or family; people who could actually hurt me in a meaningful way if they wanted, while I’m in that state of vulnerability–that’s what scares me. That’s why I never let it happen, and why I always try to brush it off, say I’m fine, even though I know perfectly well I’m not fooling anyone.

Despite how far I’ve come in terms of dealing with my own internalized stigma, despite all of my inner circle of friends knowing about my mental illness, I still desperately want to come across as fine, and healthy to them. No matter how obvious it is I’m not either of those things.

Lots of love,



In this episode, I talk about the news, stress, self-awareness (and the pitfalls of it), and try to be calm even though it kind of feels like the world is on fire right now. Also, hammocks.

Song is “Symphony No. 1: I. Hope?” by Steve Combs. It is found here (https://freemusicarchive.org/music/Steve_Combs/Symphony_No_1/Steve_Combs_-_Symphony_No_1_-_01_Symphony_No_1-_I_Hope-) and used according to this license (https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/). It has been modified by me.

“Mimos Menguados” from patrickdeartegea.com. It has also been edited by me.

Need to talk to anyone? Find a crisis line in your area here: https://www.suicidestop.com/call_a_hotline.html

All songs have been edited by me.

All sound effects made by yours truly! 🙂

The next episode will be dropping next Friday, 9a.m. PDT–make sure to subscribe/follow/add this podcast to your library/enable notifications on it to be notified when it comes out.

Find me on all my internet places here: https://linktr.ee/dragonwritesthings

And find this podcast all over the web here: https://linktr.ee/sonnetsofateenagewannabe

let them be happy

imagine my brain… like a tourist trap. with cheap gift shops, and a couple rollercoaster rides; the tracks encased in layers of neon rust.

imagine my skull like a dust bowl. forged from years without rain, as you build me up on blind trust, just to tear me down again. and i swear to god i’m gonna make it. but what price will i pay?

because i have to eat. i have to sleep. and i can’t just spend the rest of my life, fueled by desperate wanderlust. crafting a house of bone, and calling it a place to stay.

because it doesn’t matter. that when i was little, people were shitty. or that maybe i spent a little too much time alone. or how if i screamed loud enough, i always got my way. because maybe i’m just a broken fucking girl, okay?

just… let them go on. let them be happy. let them bask in their own normalcy, and pretend the world isn’t ending for just one more day...

The side affect of writing deadine-to-deadline, and very much teaching myself how to work on that last-minute kind of structure is that every week, I tell myself… this is the last time I’ll sacrifice my sleep schedule, or not leave the house for four days trying to finish a project, or procrastinate on something until those measures are necessary.

But it never is. I get so caught up in myopic, week-to-week things, that I lose sight of the bigger picture. Forget that I can’t just put my mental health and general sanity on hold forever. That you can’t create in a vacuum.

And as much as I love writing, it gets tiring after a while. Not the actual creative part, but the spending hours on a screen alone, and the constant vague stress of making sure I’m on top of everything at all times. Self promotion and social media and all that stuff.

I guess in a lot of ways, it’s just human nature, to automatically want to ignore the problem until the problem becomes a crisis, isn’t it? God. I need to figure things out. I need to take better care of myself, so I don’t feel so damn exhausted all the time.

It’s just… hard for me to look at all these beautiful things I could make, and still be able to turn it down for something as smal and insignificant as spending an afternoon at the beach.

Lots of love,