Letter to My Brain

Dear Brain,

I know we have chronic depression and you’d really like to find the root cause and cure, but maybe 4am every morning isn’t the best time; especially after you already kept us up all night with your belly aching.

I mean, come on. Seriously. While you’re searching our memory banks for everything that’s wrong with us, every mistake we’ve ever made, and every hurtful thing anyone has ever said or done to us, you may want to recall that our psychiatrist told us about the importance of sleep. I really think more sleep might be the cure you’re so desperately searching for.

Sleep has been shown to help regulate mood, weight, hormones, and overall cognition. So maybe, instead of keeping us awake for days at a time, worrying about being depressed, fat, short, queer, broke, and stupid, we could just try to get a full night’s sleep. Granted, I’m pretty sure you already know that. I’m just saying, I’m fairly certain we’re the only one’s awake at these ungodly hours. So, what’s the point?

I’m not trying to be mean or talk down to you. After all, you’re quite literally the brains of this operation, but we’ve tried the sleep deprivation and self-loathing strategy for years. Maybe it’s time to accept outside advice from all those clinical professionals I paid for. Otherwise, you’re kind of wasting my money, and that’s not cool. Plus, you know you’re just going to freak out about the money if I take us back to the doctors to get you back on your medication.

I’m not saying you can’t freak out from time to time. I’m not even saying you aren’t allowed to criticize my every fault. All I’m saying is, let’s do it between the hours of 6am and 6pm. Then give me four hours to not feel like garbage, so we can get some sleep. Better yet, how about we wake up at 6am, but you save all the negativity until around eight? That way, we can get out of bed, shower and be productive, first.

I love you and appreciate our early morning chats, but you just get so frustrated when we lie in bed too long and then have to rush around to finally start our day. And you know all those skipped showers make us self-conscious about body odor. Plus, if we get a little more sleep, we could start exercising again. Remember how thin we got that one time? How masculine we were able to act?

Of course, I also remember that we sank into a different sort of depression and got super irritable, but maybe that was just because you fall in love too easily and kept getting us into unhealthy relationships. Maybe, if you didn’t always go for people who want to take advantage of our better nature, you wouldn’t always feel taken advantage of. Besides, we don’t have to go on one of those crazy starvation diets you always think are such a great idea. We can eat carbs and exercise too.

OK. I’m sorry about the masculinity comment, too. I promise, we don’t have to act like men, starve ourselves, or exercise all the time; just a few times a week, but let’s definitely get more sleep, shower everyday (or even every other day), and maybe lighten up a bit.

We’re depressed. I get that, but this constant barrage of negativity isn’t helping.

Oh well. Good morning.


Ass to Ankles

I discuss body image a lot, and I don’t want anyone to think that I have a negative body image, because I don’t. Honestly, I think I’m fairly cute from the chest up and ass down… excluding genitals, because genitals are never attractive, and probably stopping at the ankles, because I’m not really into feet… but chest to head/ass to ankles, I think I’m fairly adorable. So, I’m thinking about getting some dotted line tattoos to help guide people’s line of sight, should they be subjected to seeing me naked; which is actually a body-positive step up from the tattoos I used to want, which were matching “Cut Here” tattoos on either wrist.

(listen at https://soundcloud.com/yourfaultforlistening/weiss)


I’ve never been good at speaking on the phone … or in person, for that matter. So, I always feel bad when my parents have me call my grandmother, because she’s my last living grandparent, she’s like 98 years old, and every conversation could be our last, and I always hope it is. Does that make me a bad person?

The thing is, you have no idea how many times I delete a text before pressing send. You have no idea, because no one does, and that’s the beauty of it, because it’s essential for me to research, filter, and distill my thoughts so as not to appall those I love, and when you’re on the phone, you can’t just say, “And that’s when your mom stopped fucking strangers. I mean, that’s why I have intimacy issues. No! Wait! Scratch that. What I meant to say was, ‘Yes. Rodger and I used to be friends.'”

(listen at https://soundcloud.com/yourfaultforlistening/flynn)

Safe Passage

I think it’s safe to assume we’re all on social media. So, I have one suggestion. If we insist on calling them selfies, then I insist they be an accurate representation of the self, and to this end, I am pioneering the downward facing selfie with two tears creeping down my face, like a drive by of sorrow.

Every other day on my media feed, there’s some happy White person or persons desecrating a cultural heritage site or traveling to Africa to endanger majestic animals, and I realize that these people are a small minority, but if we expect Arabs and Muslims to apologize for every suicide bombing…

So, talk to me, White people. Why are you so bored?

You can safely travel anywhere in the world without fear of a hate crime. Even in places that seem like they should be inhospitable to you, like Africa, you can apparently arrange safe passage. As a Black American, even the word “passage” sounds like a threat, seeing how well the last one went. Plus, there’s the internet! Do you mean to tell me you’ve exhausted the entire internet? All I have is the internet, and not once in my life have I ever been bored enough to go to Africa.

If nothing else, let’s agree to stop posting photos of these people smiling next to their fresh devastation, because that seems to act more as a macabre travel brochure. Maybe instead, we should post pictures of people doing different crazy White people things… like base jumping. We can even add some pithy text like, “So bored you wanna kill something? Have you considered jumping off a cliff?”

(listen at https://soundcloud.com/yourfaultforlistening/xtinavk)

Ball Tapping

Just like everyone else, most of my male friends growing up were heterosexual, and yet I saw most of their balls; wrinkly balls, saggy balls, gummy balls, hairy balls. Personally, I am perfectly content with my petite balls, but most men seem obsessed with acquiring impractical ones: giant balls and balls of steel. But can you imagine how hot in summer and cold in winter your giant steel balls would be? And heaven forbid you accidentally sit on one.

So obsessed are men with their balls that at this very moment, thousands of adolescent boys the world over are engaged in the ancient ball-tapping game. For women unfamiliar with this ostensibly heteronormative male rite of passage, it’s a war of escalating homo-erotic sadomasochism in which one male friend will casually approach another and flick him in the balls, with the understanding that, at some later date, that same friend is going to backhand him in his junk when least expected.

As one might imagine, it’s absolutely essential to never take an extra turn or escalate out of sequence; the traditional sequence being flick, slap, punch, knee, kick, brick.

(listen at https://soundcloud.com/yourfaultforlistening/cleveland)