Recently I went on a women’s retreat with my church to Avila Beach. We drank wine, talked about life, writing, and Jesus, wept for Jesus, drank margaritas, went shopping, made an art project, had an awesome catered taco dinner, prayed some more, cried some more, drank more wine, and sang karaoke.

A few of the girls asked with an apprehensive smirk, “Have we weirded you out yet?”

I smiled and said, “No. I think that would have happened by now.”

I can’t say I'm at the passionate stage that some of the women are regarding Jesus, but their enthusiasm certainly didn’t bother me. I’m still figuring out where my views stand with standard Christian beliefs (given my family’s Catholic background and my own time in the new age spiritual realm), but there’s no doubt I’m being called to it. And I’m beyond thankful for my church community, and ours is about as chill and open as one could be, taking me in like a middle-aged orphan.

Talking to the girls, I’ve learned there are a variety of beliefs and stances, which personally I like. There are liberals and conservatives. I mean, if I’m being real, I didn’t even know there were liberals who were actively practicing Christians. You learn something new every day.

Yet as a newbie I’m grappling with a few things. Sin being number one—since I seem to have a PhD in sinning, or used to at least (I’m just boring now). And of course, I write about sinning. That’s my bread and butter. I honestly don’t even know if “sinning” is really the right word to use in 2026. From what I gather the idea of sinning is more of a disconnection from God, rather than being naughty or bad. I certainly don’t want to go through life feeling guilty about having fun or being human. Because being human is inherently messy. Although I think in my forties, long before I started going to church last year, I made a subconscious decision to be less messy. To think more about the consequences of things and the people I invite into my life. This is just age as well. I don’t want to deal with unnecessary bullshit. And that is probably why church is more appealing now.

Getting back to sinning and that I write about it. Most of the girls at church know that I am a writer, and some told me they wanted to read Synth Noir, which I was very hesitant about at first. A book about very flawed, “problematic” characters who have affairs, do drugs, and have a tendency toward hedonism. I was sure they would think I’m a complete heathen if they read it.

But they insisted they’ve read much worse. I started to get texts that they bought the book, and then texts from some who were in the middle of reading it (primarily lolling about Ritchie’s Anthropologie rant), and then more texts that they finished it and couldn’t wait for the next book. They’ve been more supportive than most of my close girlfriends I’ve had for years.

Moral of the story, don’t judge a book by its cover. No pun intended.

Of course, Synth Noir Book 1 is pretty tame compared to what’s coming later in the series. And very tame compared to my upcoming books. Which is what I’m grappling with as well. What about the next book? And the one after that? My more transgressive novels coming down the line that I feel compelled to write. That aren’t romance, but are horror and violent and graphic.

Can you be a Christian and write with honesty about the complexities of human nature? I would like to think so. After all, the Bible is filled with transgressive stories. Some very shocking. Sodom and Gomorrah anyone? Whether you believe it or not, take it literally or as a book of parables, the Bible is basically a transgressive anthology filled with nuance about the history of human nature and God.

I don’t want to hold back with my writing now that I’m going to church. But there is a lot of weirdness inside of me that needs to come out and I’m not sure how people will take it—at church or not. Despite my desire to learn about Christianity, at my core I’m provocative and a bit of a heretic. But that’s one side of me. The other side is a suburban yuppie who now goes to church, studies the Bible, decorates her home with roses from Trader Joe’s, and most nights cuddles with her cats while watching dating shows and ‘80s soap operas. Can the two coexist? Maybe this is any artist’s dilemma. I mean, if Alice Cooper can be a Christian, why can’t I?

Read Synth Noir?

Leave a review on Goodreads or Amazon.

Buy the series here.

It’s too hot today, even by the coast. I haven’t been sleeping well because of it. I can’t stand the heat when I sleep. The cats are exhausted from the heat and so am I. Waking up tired and cranky. They’ve been sleeping most of the day, but I’ve been writing copy while frustrated and thirsty. I might need air conditioning.

We’ve barely had a winter. It’s either been hot as fuck, or a week of rain here or there. I shouldn’t be complaining. It’s like summer right now, except I don’t want to put on a bikini because I feel gross. Perimenopausal. I’ve made an appointment to see a local hormonal expert my friends recommended in hopes of not feeling like an alien in my own body and perhaps get rid of this belly fat. Please, God.

I meant to write about Wuthering Heights a month ago, but didn’t have time. Time is fleeting once again. I started a new copywriting gig with the agency I used to work for, and find myself scrambling to get everything done. What are you going to do? Bills need to be paid.

It does seem a bit stupid to write about Wuthering Heights at this point. The timing is all wrong and it feels like no one is talking about it anymore, but whatever. I feel compelled. I was going to do a whole deep dive about the onslaught of Gen Z BookTok Karens outraged about the movie, but it sounded so whiny and preachy itself. I was also going to dive into that even people who I follow for their bitchy, more humorous heretical takes on political correctness seemed to dramatically, and unironically, think it was the worst movie ever(!) because in their minds, it was un-intellectual and conformed to the tedious impulses of today’s feminist and BookTok dumbed-down erotica crowd.

Oh my.

I’m beginning to wonder. Is it possible to read a book or watch a film in the 2020s without turning into some political or cultural lecture?

Anyway, I liked the movie. Actually, I loved it. I saw it twice. I know. The horror.

The first time was with a group of girls from my church. We went to dinner beforehand and had margaritas and walked to the theater slightly buzzed, and giggled at the somewhat jarring hanging/erection scene at the beginning of the film. Then proceeded to giggle through much of the rest of the movie, cheered for a shirtless Jacob Elordi, and then some of us cried at the end. I didn’t, although I was certainly on the verge.

The second time I went by myself to really take it in. To sit among strangers and cry. This time I noticed hints of the tragic ending that added a second layer of doom and heartbreak—and somehow related it back to my state of yearning and singledom, of course. This viewing I let loose and bawled my eyes out. Felt like I had been hit by a train the next day from my “crying hangover” (yes, this is a real thing). FYI, there were just as many TikToks of women and girls posting their before and afters of seeing Wuthering Heights. Giddily going in, and tearful on the way out. As women, we live for this shit.

Meanwhile I was growing annoyed (and slightly fascinated) by the army of social media intellectuals horrified by casting choices, stylistic choices—and of course the toxic consensual BDSM type of relationship between Heathcliff and Isabella, instead of the apparently even more fucked up relationship in the book that was not consensual, and therefore the movie was promoting toxic male behavior. Yawn.

Once the Wuthering Heights witch hunt died down, there was another BookTok scandal apparently about author Sarah J. Maas and her book, ACOTAR (A Court of Thorns and Roses), neither of which I had ever heard of, but apparently she did something… wrote something she wasn’t allowed to write—in a fantasy book. What, I honestly don’t know. And I don’t really care so I didn’t look into it.

I made the mistake of leaving a fleeting comment, like a typical Gen Xer, “Just write what you want.” Oh boy. That is not what you do in 2026. You do not write what you want. How offensive and careless of me, and the BookTok Karens were sure to tell me. “Are you okay?” one commented to me after I said that I don’t care about being offended, and that sometimes fiction and art should be provocative and offensive. Little does she know that I’m offended by things every day and just go about my life like a normal person.

I can only imagine what their reaction would be to the toxic relationships in Synth Noir, not to mention my upcoming novel, Van Life. An explicit story from beginning to end filled with sex, drugs, toxicity, and violence. And humor. It might need a trigger warning.

The irony is that all of these intellectual digital Karens are really just a modern version of the SNL Church Lady with their grandstanding TikTok posts. Just replace “Satan!” with any current transgression that gets them riled up and shaking their fist, hell-bent on canceling anything that doesn’t fit into their 2020s worldview.

A digital book burning if you will.

It’s annoying. And weird. But perhaps instead of getting worried that young people, and society in general, are losing any sense of nuance and taking things much too literally (even made-up characters that don’t exist in real life), this too I should let go of and just go about my day.

Books 1 & 2 available on Amazon. Enjoy…

Last week, a week before Valentine’s Day, I had a breakdown when I got home after grocery shopping on a sunny Saturday. Nothing crazy, just an intense cry. Not that unusual for me, actually. The tears started coming while I was driving home from Trader Joe’s. My neighbor, who usually acts like she hates me, gushed about how beautiful I looked as I was opening my front door to bring in my groceries. I had gotten all dolled up because I thought I might go for a drink with a friend at a brewery event. That fell through and I didn’t have it in me to go to another social event by myself so I went grocery shopping instead. I smiled weakly at my neighbor, said thank you, closed the door, and immediately started bawling while my cats looked at me bewildered.

Maybe I was PMSing.

Maybe not.

There are certain times of the year that just suck when you’re single. Birthdays, Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Valentine’s Day. They’re reminders of how you’ve failed somehow. “Why are you still single?” people ask me.

I don’t know.

There are probably a multitude of reasons and if I really want to feel sorry for myself, which sometimes I do, the story is, nothing seems to go right for me in the world of romance anymore. Nothing.

If I’m honest with myself, I’ve lost hope. I’m scared to open up. I’m very jaded, a little dead inside. Tired of being rejected by the ones I like, and there’s not many I like. Men don’t approach me anymore, not that they’re really approaching women in general these days. The apps are a second job I’m not interested in participating in. I’m working on my books, redoing my house, and my garage needs to be cleaned.

I’m sure I’m doing something wrong (see previous paragraph). I have been single for eight years. I haven’t had a Valentine’s since 2017. Take that in. Yeah. Guess I’m a loser.

The truth is the older I get, the more apprehensive I am about opening up to a relationship. Or maybe I’m too realistic about what won’t work. Or too scared of the wool being pulled over my eyes again. After years and years of dating, my intuition is spot on, which cuts a lot of potentials out. Because I can see the future. It’s happened too many times, so now I have to listen.

I don’t know how to spot a good man, but I sure know how to spot a bad one.

I think the main thing is I’ve lost my spark. My naivety. When I was young and dumb, the world was my oyster. I was falling in lust almost constantly. It was fun, but in the end I didn’t choose right. I didn’t listen to those pestering red flags. In my thirties I had to face the music several times. Come to Jesus moments about the men I had invited into my life. Who I had made my entire life.

My forties? Well, I had high hopes in the beginning. I was coming out of a two-year cougar phase at around forty. Ready for a real relationship with an age-appropriate man. Ready for an actual man. Except I wasn’t meeting men. Sure, they were my age, but there was always something; they wanted to play the field, they were forty-year-old bachelors who didn’t know how to hold a relationship, they used to be meth heads or alcoholics or sex addicts, they didn’t fit into my life and I didn’t fit into theirs—I mean there are a variety of things when you reach middle-aged singledom. I won’t get into the dirty details here. I’ll save that for the next novel.

So I retreated. Pretty much this entire decade so far has been a retreat, between Covid and practically being a nun. A long, long retreat. Though I have been busy. I bought my own place. I finally published my novel. It hasn’t been a total loss. But no Valentine—even though I tried. And boy did I try over the years.

Near the end of last year, a certain someone popped up in my texts out of nowhere. This had been a long-standing crush, I’m talking years of being in and out of each other’s lives. I honestly hadn’t expected to hear from him given it never seemed to be in the cards for us, but I always had a gut feeling it wasn’t over per se. Turns out his situation had changed and he reached out. We hadn’t texted in years. We had just seen each other for the first time in a long time recently, and the spark was still there. Which led me to think the obvious—he was free to pursue me and that’s what he was doing.

I was surprised, confused, and over the moon. I mean, as excited as one could be for him not explicitly saying what he wanted, which was never his strong suit. He likes to dance around things, keep you hanging. Predictably to anyone else but me, an actual romance was not what he wanted. After going around in circles for months, while I guess he “breadcrumbed” me morning, noon, and night—and I let him—it was pretty clear that he only saw me as a crutch through a hard time or just as a friend to whom he was attracted, but nothing more. After all these years, surely I was more than that, wasn’t I? I wasn't just some ho on Bumble to chat endlessly with for a confidence boost. We had a history of flirtation and yearning, drunken I love you’s, a love letter thrown in there, and real life consequences.

He said, why can’t we be friends?

But we were never really just friends, I told him.

Clearly, I don’t understand men.

And now I have to leave to see Wuthering Heights…

‘Tis the season for unrequited love. Get the novel.

My brain is mush this week. Too many tired days. Sleep filled with uncanny dreams. Hay fever problems. Epstein horror stories. An overall sense of malaise in the air.

I did happen to write fiction, which I haven’t done in a very long time. Not since Van Life. I’ve been in editing and proofing mode for the last year—a kind of purgatory I’m still not done with. But I started writing Book 4 of Synth Noir a couple of nights ago. Another act that has been bouncing around in my head for the last ten years. I was on the fence about it initially since I had always pictured what I had already written (books 1-3) as one book, and my prior plan was to leave it at that. But now it’s a series—which means it needs one more book to be complete. And I’d kind of like to knock it out. I don’t want all twenty of my readers to hate me like George R. R. Martin, after all.

It’s been fun to get back into fiction mode, although I have like five books in my head that I want to write now. Besides finishing Synth Noir, there is the novel inspired by my mid-life crisis that seems pertinent. I feel like if I can write that, maybe my mid-life crisis will end… somehow. Because at the moment, it seems like it never will.

There’s the “problematic” satire in the realm of horror about the 2020s, which also seems timely. This one will probably get me canceled, but I feel compelled to write it. People will be offended, I know that for sure. My uber-liberal girlfriends, what’s left of them, and the new ones I’ve made, will think I’m nuts. Maybe I am. But I’m also a writer, a satirist, and need to make sense of this strange new world we’ve been living in. That’s my job.

There’s also the soap opera serial that takes place in the beach town from Synth Noir and Van Life, Arkadia-by-the-Sea, where we go back to the heydays of Simon De La Cruz’s playboy, real-estate mogul father who doesn’t have a name yet. This will start in the late ‘70s, and go into the ‘80s, and will be pure fun and trash. Something I can’t wait to dig into, but is probably last on my list at the moment if I’m honest.

What I would like is to write all of these now. I should move into a one-room cabin in the woods with no distractions. Nothing to clean. No one to get dressed for. Just me and my computer and my robe, knocking each novel out quickly, crazily. Of course, this will never happen. I’m much too vain for that. And I have the cats, of course.

Writing these will take time. And now that I’m actually publishing my work, I also have to take time to market my books. Make TikTok videos that no one likes, remember to tweet, and post on Insta. And shit, Facebook, which I always forget about. Find my audience, wherever the hell they are. Learn Amazon ads. Self-promote, which is not my strong suit.

Establish the type of fiction I write… which is what exactly?

This is the biggest pain in the ass regarding marketing and finding your “audience.” Commercial vs literary? Genre vs upmarket? I didn’t even know what upmarket was until like a day ago. Am I literary? Always thought I was since I’m not genre, but now I’m not sure. Now I think I might be upmarket? A mix of literary and commercial? I mean, my novels are deep dives into characters, nuance, and themes, and are not dependent on tropes, but they’re also fast reads with cliffhangers. I’m not precious about performative prose. I’m not really into pages and pages of describing things. I’m heavy on dialogue. And my writing is certainly nowhere near A Little Life (and I’m sorry, but that book bored the fuck out of me).

I’ve been beginning to think, is Phoenix Ryder pulp?

Maybe… I mean, I did first publish Synth Noir as a serial.

In doing my research to try to figure out what exactly pulp is in 2025, I came across this paragraph describing an opinion on modern pulp by Alex Hormann.

“Pulp can mean rapidly fixed together narratives. It can mean lurid shocks, and a reliance on unsubtle storytelling. But to me pulp means something else. It means direct storytelling, with no unnecessary frills. It means bold characters and vivid worlds. It means an efficiency of prose that is unheard of these days. It means telling a story in short sections, rather than dragging it over eight hundred pages. Pulp’s short fiction roots often reflect a punchy writing style. Short chapters, lots of cliffhangers.”

Hmm, yes, I don’t write westerns or sci-fi, but this sounds an awful lot like my style.

Still, as a writer, it’s hard to fit into any category if you’re not explicitly trying to—which I never have. That’s not how I write. I just write what I want… yet I’ve always, until recently, been hell-bent on calling my work literary like the writers that I admire the most: Bret Easton Ellis and the more obscure Alicia Erian (highly recommend Towelhead by Alicia).

But in no way am I as talented at prose as Ellis or Erian. That’s just the truth. I’m okay with that. I’ve found my voice and style over the years and now my ultimate goal is to write what I feel compelled to while entertaining my readers. That’s it. Not to satisfy my ego as a “literary” writer. Those days are gone.

The more I write, the less I care about the literary title. The more I read contemporary literary fiction, the less I’m convinced that’s where I should be. I’ve been hanging out in indie lit on X, but most of the time feel like an outsider because I haven’t been published in a lit mag, and honestly don’t care if I ever am. Most indie-lit writers seem to look down on self-publishing; instead, they’ll seemingly spend years trying to get published by a small press. And I’ll be honest, a lot of acclaimed fiction I find boring. Sorry.

And yet I’ll pick up an old mass market commercial novel and be swept away.

I mean, my God, I watched fourteen seasons of the nighttime soap, Knots Landing—as you well know because I’ve mentioned it about a million times—within a year and a couple months. I was obsessed. Absolutely mesmerized. It’s become apparent to me that I obviously don’t care about high-brow. My ultimate goal is to be immersed in the story. As both the reader and the writer.

But people will want to define you and to that I say, maybe I’m literary pulp. I don’t know.

Also, does it even matter?

Get Synth Noir on Amazon

Shop Paperback

Shop Vintage Mass Market Edition

The YouTube astrologer said chaos will continue into February 2026. There will be eclipses (apparently not good, I dunno). Planets aligning like in 1989 when the Berlin Wall fell. Something with oil. There will be an oil spill or a shipwreck. This is fate.

There’s a trend on TikTok or X or wherever about 2016 being an “epic” year, which boggles my old-ass mind because to me, that’s the year when things started to get weird. In one way or another, if you’re over forty, you’ll probably agree that 2015 into 2016 was the beginning of the Twilight Zone IRL. For some it was because Trump was elected. For others, it was the start of extreme political correctness. Whatever algorithm you subscribe to, I really don’t care, but I’m gonna guess you haven’t thought the last ten years have been the greatest.

Yet, young people have been touting 2016 as like, so fire. Why?

I tried to rack my brain for what I remembered about 2016 other than Trump getting elected and people being mad about it. It’s a bit of a blank year in my memory. It was post my divorce and two-year Burning Man-esque festival stint. I was living with my ex-boyfriend by the beach. I was 36 and still trying to figure out my life and career—if I was going to have a family with my then boyfriend and if we would stay in San Diego, which was getting very expensive. I was taking a break from writing Synth Noir because it was too emotionally exhausting and I had written the beginning of Van Life. Things weren’t bad, they were just whatever.

Now that I’m in my mid-forties, it’s perplexing to see younger people reminiscing about such a blah year. They explain on TikTok that 2016 was special for a certain group of Millennials because it was post-grad or something like that. And you know what, I get it. When you’re in your twenties, even if things suck, they’re still pretty good. I mean, looking back at the aughts I was having a ton of fun despite 9/11, despite the war in Iraq, and the threat of anthrax by mail and terrorism. I was partying. I was obsessed with southern rap. I was absolutely boy crazy. And I was shopping at Forever 21 a lot.

So I guess when young people reminisce about the mid to late 2010s, very odd years to me, that’s what they’re talking about: drinking, partying, dancing, and hooking up without caring about the ways of the world. This is how it should be for young people.

But I gotta say, if we’re gonna go back in time to a semi-recent era, I’d rather go back to 2011 or 2012. Maybe 2013. Far enough past the 2008 financial crisis and still in the Obama years—when the general public was more ambivalent about politics and you wouldn’t get an earful about it in social settings (my God, I wish we could go back to that). Music, if you were into indie, electronic, and dance, was popping off some bangers. Creativity was cool. Tech was booming, and dare I say, kinda fun. Instagram? You posted cups of coffee. Influencers? There were none! Blogs were still a thing. I think there were ads on Facebook, but honestly, I can’t remember. I don’t think we, as a society, even knew what an algorithm was.

I believe most of us had smartphones by then, but we weren’t recording at all times so you could still do stupid shit. And you could still say stupid shit without fear of being canceled. Think of the thrill. The freedom.

Even though my personal life was falling apart through these years (the inspiration for the fictional world of Synth Noir), there was something sunny and bright about 2011-2013. Maybe it was the Millennial optimism that Gen Z thinks is cringe now. And even though I’m not a Millennial, I dunno, there was something in the air at that time. An excitement. An irreverence. Humor. Hope.

In a way it reminds me of pre-9/11. The innocence we had. The naivety of what would be coming in the next decade and how our lives would change. That’s how I look at the early 2010s before whatever this mind fuck is that we’re in now.

I remember my first glimpse of what would become of this very odd time we’re living through. For some reason I had a subscription to The Atlantic in 2015—don’t ask me why. Someone had written an alarming article about “safe spaces” and “trigger warnings” at universities. I was flabbergasted. Truly. Why in the hell would an eighteen-year-old need a safe space or a trigger warning? Something that sounded like it was for five-year-olds in kindergarten. The article made me feel uneasy. Maybe it was my intuition forecasting the future of unrelenting awareness and political correctness that I find extremely stifling.

Around the same time I think Bret Easton Ellis started referring to Millennials as snowflakes. Whether that was an accurate description or not, there seemed to be a trend towards hysteria and outrage and safety spreading throughout the generations.

What was this new era we were in? Why couldn’t people just chill out like we used to? Why were young adults acting like scared little children? Shit, why were adults acting like scared little children?

Anyway, God, I miss 2012.

I miss talking about music, movies, TV, and comedy roasts, and not getting a social science lecture over a glass of wine. I miss context, nuance, humor—a certain casualness to the absurdities in life.

Sigh. Maybe someday.

Meanwhile, the YouTube astrologer is also predicting major floods, regime changes, and proof of aliens in 2026. It’s going to get worse before it gets better. You’ve been warned. Don’t freak out. Take a deep breath. It’s fine. We’re gonna be fine. Chances are you’ll still be scrolling on Instagram and X and buying shit on Amazon despite any of this—even the aliens.

This is fate. We must go through it. We must go through the shit.

At least we have memes.

Music Rec

The year was 2012… although not every song is from 2012. Some are ‘80s throwbacks, some are from 2011 or the aughts—the point is, it was a vibe. It was fun!

My ex-boyfriend said my spirit animal was a house cat. He didn’t mean it in a nice way. It was a jab because he wasn’t a cat person. He was a dog person. We had a cat together and he would talk to the cat like it was a dog—very loudly like a hyper little boy. The cat always looked terrified. He didn’t respect the cat. You must respect the cat.

As a cat person, it isn’t that I don’t like dogs. I get along with all animals, and I like dogs, even love them. Unlike self-proclaimed “dog” people who hate cats. How can you hate such majestic creatures?

I was slightly offended that he said I was like a house cat. He had a look of distaste when he said it that hurt my feelings. Because I knew what he was really saying—I don’t like you as much as I thought I did and I’ll be breaking up with you soon. And he did.

People don’t like cats because cats are complicated. They’re moody. They’re still a little wild. Dogs are full of unconditional love and for the most part, they do what you say. But a cat’s love is earned, and it’s not their job to do what you say. They’re a cat.

Cats are like women. We’re sussing you out. But once there is a bond, you can’t shake us. We have expectations. And we want to cuddle. And sometimes we want you to get the fuck away from us.

People think cats should be easy. Just leave a cat indoors with food and water for a week, and they’ll be fine. Sure, some cats. But not all cats. People don’t think cats need things, but they do. They need love and attention more than most people realize. If you would just give them a chance!

Since I’m childless (not by choice, so chill), I put all my instinctual maternal love toward my cats. I worry about them maybe more than I should. I hate to see them sad or hurt. My boy cat Rex is on his second round of antibiotics from a cat fight two weeks ago and has now developed a big lump on his side from an infection. I can’t let him outside to do the things he loves to do, like roll around in the dirt, chase bugs, keep a watch on our territory, and lounge in the sun. It breaks my heart.

Sometimes I think I will be single forever because of my cats. Most guys are either allergic, hate cats, or are scared of them. Or they have a dog that’s with them constantly. I’m not sure I’ve ever dated a guy with a cat. There was a guy I dated three years ago who was angry that my cats broke into my room while we were having sex. It ruined the moment according to him. He seemed disgusted. Yet every time we hooked up at his house, his dog would stare at us with a slobbery ball in his mouth, panting, and waiting to play catch. I always found this distracting and a bit odd, but we went on with our business and I didn’t say anything. That was the last guy I dated.

It’s been just me and the cats for a long time. I sometimes wonder how anyone else will fit in. Is it possible for a man to love me and my cats? I only have two. We’re not talking cat lady status, right? Right?

I don’t know.

Dog people get to bring their dogs everywhere. They also use them as an excuse—to go home early and take them out for walks so they can piss and take a shit. This is acceptable in society. Telling people you need to leave to get your cats inside before it gets dark out? People think you’re nuts. You’re going home because of your cats? I’m going home because I don't want my cats to be eaten by coyotes. Is that not good enough for you?

I’ve been thinking about my cats a lot lately. I want to give them a good home without strays running around trying to mate or attack them. A suburban house with a big backyard where we can lounge in the sun on Saturday mornings. Not too close to the hills so I can let them out during the day without worry. These are the things I want for my cats and I. And maybe someday, a cat dad with whom I have a primal attraction. He’ll accept my cats, even love them. Is that even possible? I don’t know.

Music Rec

I watched the movie Cat People from 1982 recently. I remember always seeing it at the video store as a kid and wondering what it was about. It seemed very adult. Watching it as an adult, it’s a bit laughable. There’s something innocent about ‘80s movies in general, even if they were meant to be erotic and transgressive. Still, it’s a vibe. I’m recommending the movie and the soundtrack with a caveat that it’s pretty cheesy and camp.

The score is by Giorgio Moroder with a title track (“Cat People: Putting Out the Fire”) by David Bowie. Not the greatest song in the world, or even that good, but the score is fun if you’re into retro synths. Similar to Tangerine Dream and John Carpenter. Also good background music. Some of you might hate it.

Synth Noir Book 1 on Amazon

Pissed off about crime. Angry at the tabby cat five doors down who I think attacked my cat. Wearing Giorgio Beverly Hills unironically. Bitching at city council about potholes. Designing my house like I’m a Crystal Light-drinking 80s/90s housewife. Wearing eyeshadow and eyeliner to casual events. Adhering to noise ordinances. Dressing up like a European in a SoCal beach town that exclusively wears beanies and Patagonia puffers.

If my twenties in the aughts were my Forever 21-wearing, blackout-drunk dirtbag era, and my thirties were my festival-going, kundalini yoga bougie-hippie era, then my forties are my full-blown yuppie era. Now, I like quiet. I like soft rock (always have, but it’s really hit home this decade). I like luxury. Restaurants, not bars. A glass of wine, not shots or drugs. Things have changed.

I have a lot of opinions. Most of which I keep to myself irl. It’s tacky to say them out loud in-person without knowing your audience. I think of myself as a classic yuppie, not a modern yuppie. No, my era is between 1977-1992. Great yuppie years. When yuppies knew they were kind of assholes and judgmental, but dressed well, were at least entertaining, and had some class and decorum.

You don’t always know where a classic yuppie stands. You assume Republican, but you never know. They could support gay marriage and water conservation. They could ultimately be politically non-binary—uber-liberal about one thing, and conservative about another, spinning you around and around, which may piss you off because you want answers. You want definition. Where do I place you? The classic yuppie isn’t going to chew your ear off about the horrors of the world, but they will bitch about local crime and vagrants.

I don’t care about having a lot of money, but as a classic yuppie I do care about living in a clean quiet neighborhood, which I do not. I live in a quiet condo community nestled in the hood about 1.5 miles from the beach. Great location, shitty neighborhood. It’s what I could afford. When I drive out of my tree-lined community, I’m hit with the reality of drug addicts coming up from the river bottom (they live there) to meander to what we call “Scary Vons” down the street, where they congregate and sell drugs while the police do nothing. It’s a vagrant’s mecca. It’s also my neighborhood grocery store.

We have gangs in the neighborhood as well. Shootings. Fireworks that sound like bombs and shake your house. Watching Knots Landing incessantly for the last year has really given me a clear view of where I am in my life—I’ve turned into Karen (no pun intended) Fairgate. Once Knots Landing hit the ‘90s, the subject of gangs became a prominent theme in the show, and Karen is having a hard time in this new crime-ridden decade—getting hit with a paintball gun while out shopping, she tailgates the teens who shot her with a major bout of road rage, ending in an accident and a possible manslaughter case. But I feel for Karen because I too am sick of this shit.

When I was a semi-hippie in my thirties, gentrification was considered a local horror that destroyed small beach towns. And it did. And I am still protective of my little beach town from big-box developers, but my dirty little secret is the thought: would a little gentrification be so bad in my sketchy-ass neighborhood? Maybe just a tad of gentrification. To reduce crime at least? Gentrification-lite. So I can take a walk at dusk without the fear of getting harassed by a meth head. I don’t think that’s asking much.

In the meantime, while dreaming of a gentrification-lite crime reduction that will probably never come, I stay tucked away in my 1982-built townhouse with high popcorn ceilings, nice natural lighting, and views of the mountains—where I can escape the grim landscape that is modern California. High costs and high crime. I can turn my focus to rather expensive sugar-free dark chocolate (literally my antidepressant), douse myself with Obsession for women, and cozy up in my contemporary-designed living room embraced by the mood lighting of battery-operated candles and sconces. I’ll browse vintage landline phones on eBay as a distraction. I’ll need one in case there is an emergency.

Music Rec

Your classic yuppie soundtrack starter pack:

Synth Noir Book 1

Shop trade size.

Shop special mass market size.

Written Thursday evening…

This was supposed to be the week where I got caught up. After the holidays, after getting sick, and after being stuck inside from yet another storm with the cats. Monday it didn’t rain, thank God. I went to the gym, came back, tidied up my front garden (with the help of my cats), made lunch, and sat down to eat while watching Knots Landing. It was a great start to the day. After lunch I would finish my gardening before focusing on writing stuff—mainly submitting Synth Noir Book 2 for a proof. You couldn’t ask for a better day.

Mid-lunch and mid-episode, a delivery guy dropped something off at the front door and my boy cat Rex, who had been curled up as cute as can be on one of my dining chairs, jumped up startled and totally freaked. Not entirely out of character, but kinda weird.

He scurried off to the garage, his body close to the ground, and my cat mom spidey senses got triggered. But I decided to let him be. He’s a cat. Just let him be, I instructed myself. About twenty minutes later I had to go in the garage for something and saw Rex perched very majestically on the cat tower I’ve been meaning to get rid of. I had to go over and pet him, of course. He looked so cute.

And that’s when he started acting really weird. Rex is a mama’s boy and never passes up pets, but this time he cried when I touched him and jumped off to the ground to get away from me.

Something was wrong. I knew it. But again, I let him be while an uneasiness began brewing inside of me. What else could I do? He’s a cat.

Eventually he came out of the garage into the house and I knew I had to figure out what the hell was going on. So I pulled out his favorite treats and tossed one right in front of me, so he had to come to me to get it. He didn’t move. He just stared at it, hunched over while letting out a desperate, whiny meow, and lifting his left paw. That’s all I needed to know. Since I’m a helicopter cat mom, I took him to the emergency vet right away and found out he had gotten into a cat fight and had two bite marks with puncture wounds. He was in a lot of pain, my poor little baby.

This also meant seven days of antibiotics, pain meds, and staying indoors to heal.

I have no idea if any of you have dealt with sick or injured cats, but it ain’t easy. Rex has been a pretty good patient and getting better day by day, but this morning he was determined to go outside—he’d gone from sleepy, healing cat to irritated, I hate my mom for keeping me indoors cat.

He also decided he was over the pill pockets and refused to eat his antibiotics tucked away in the chicken-flavored ones he usually loves. I spent over an hour this morning coercing him with treats, peanut butter, you name it. Nope. Finally got him to eat a crushed pill in a liquid treat which then went on to give him diarrhea about an hour later. Needless to say, he’s really not happy with me right now. And he will be even more unhappy with me in about thirty minutes when I have to give him his new liquid antibiotics via a syringe in his mouth. We have four more days of this.

Uneasiness.

That’s the feeling that I’ve been trying to push away as of late, and especially this week. Could be because I had been inside for over a week, and am now dealing with an injured cat. It could be the non-stop horrible news coming from all directions, that you can’t get away from. It could be that my little sabbatical will have to end at some point in the near future and that gives me mild anxiety. It could be that now that my book is out I have to turn into a social media personality and promote it (which I suck at). It could be that I’m in the latter half of my 40s, single, and in no way prepared for retirement. Whatever, the point is it could be a lot of things.

But one thing it definitely is I’ve realized (besides my sick cat), is the scrolling. The goddamn scrolling I initiate myself on this fucking phone that I can’t seem to stop. The podcasts, the never-ending commentary, the grandstanding posts on X, the indie lit drama that I have nothing to do with that fills my feed. Everything online at the moment seems a bit shitty and hopeless.

I feel very isolated in this digital world. Especially now as an author with a book to promote and realizing that I have to participate to be included in the algorithm. Most of the time it feels like talking in a cave where you only hear echoes of yourself.

Sometimes I think, oh maybe I’ll start a YouTube channel and become a video personality to find more readers. Um, ok… yeah right. Like that’s going to happen. I barely have the desire to take a selfie these days. Honestly, I’d really like to delete YouTube altogether because my feed on there is depressing as fuck. Unfortunately it’s where I go for news, and now that’s all I get. The fucking algorithm.

I stay on X because why exactly? I interact with like five people on there. I’m in indie lit Twitter, but I’m not really part of it. I could give two shits about Cormac McCarthy. I don’t know the majority of the players in the drama I see on there (as entertaining as it is sometimes). I love writing, but I really don’t want to tweet about the ins and outs of writing all day, and also I don’t have time to. I like shit-posting for fun because I’m a sarcastic fuck, but I’m not a nihilist. At 46, I don’t really give a crap or understand for that matter, I’d say about 88% of the stuff I see on X, most of which are dark, dark riddles of irony that leave me feeling empty and out of touch. I’m on the verge of deleting X too. Or maybe just stepping away. Idk.

I guess what I’ve been thinking about this week, barely into 2026, is which algorithms I want to participate in going forward. That I need to participate in. Real life is already hard enough—I don’t need the extra stress of knowing every horrendous event that happens in the world, or everyone’s drama, or new Gen Z words that I have to look up.

But I have an addiction. Don’t we all? I see people tweeting all day long, responding to hourly news stories, or constant discourse about Cormac McCarthy and the state of male literary authors, and I think to myself, where do you find the time? But even if I had the time, I don't want to do that.

I am happiest writing fiction. I’m happiest building my new Phoenix Ryder neocities website (Web 1.0, baby). I’m actually kinda happy writing this post. I want to spend my time creating a world, an escape for my readers, not just shit post on X—as much as that is fun sometimes—in hopes of getting noticed and perhaps a sale. It could be that I’m realizing I need to focus on what matters if I want writing fiction to be a career that pays the bills. But a lot of it is also wanting to feel sane like I did before we had these smartphones and apps. The computer was enough for me.

I dunno. Anyway, it’s 10pm in January and I’m dying for a crisp lime La Croix right now. And I gotta give my cat his antibiotics.

Get yours on Amazon.

Music Rec

I’ll be honest. I usually recommend something that I’m currently into week of, but this week, the only thing I’ve been listening to is the Calming Cathedral Chants playlist on Spotify—late at night while my battery-operated candles flicker over the fireplace.

But one group or artist I’ve discovered recently that I really like is Thought Beings. They’re a bit of a mystery, but I did find some information about that on Aztec Records:

Thought Beings are a collective of anonymous artists from California formed by lead singers Orion and Lemon. With music inspired by Afro-Caribean, Hawaiian, and Japanese influences mixed with Synthwave, Synthpop, and colourful 80s nostalgia, Neon Beach is the band’s third studio album, based on a short story written by the main producer.

I’m now realizing I need to go down the Aztec Records rabbit hole since they specialize in Synthpop, Retrowave, and Synthwave. One of their artists is Sunglasses Kid, which you may know from the song “Badge and gun.”

My Thought Beings favorites right now are the songs “Hazy” and “Sundown.” Enjoy.

I hosted Christmas Eve, and I kicked ass. Appetizers were ready by the time the guests arrived, table was set, garland hung, lights lit, eggplant parmesan made the day before and just needed to be heated, cannolis chilled—I mean what else do you want?

As I’ve said on X, I would make a great housewife.

But the prep kicked my ass. In addition to the hosting preparation, I also wrote Christmas cards where I made each card and envelope myself (like an insane person). I handwrote them and sealed them with wax (like an insane person). Of the five Christmas cards I received this year, all were Shutterfly printouts. I miss handwritten cards. I mean, what—am I going to send out a photo of just me and my cats? Like an insane person? No, I’m not doing that.

Anyway, I was rushing around getting everything I needed for Christmas Eve, writing out those damn cards, doing last minute shopping, cooking until 11pm the night before, and eating a bunch of sweets. The day after Christmas I woke up with a cold that I had hoped was allergies, but was not.

I’ve spent the last week watching season 11 of Knots Landing on Tubi and proofing Synth Noir Book 2 on my couch, surrounded by tissues, cough drops, and hot tea. I’m finally feeling back to normal. I was supposed to go to a New Year’s Eve party last night, but I was not up to it.

No, instead I started season 12 of Knots Landing and tried to figure out my life. Why I’ve turned into an avoidant and don't have a boyfriend, how to market my books, which book I’m working on next, etc. I ended my evening listening to weird YouTube videos about abandoned malls, realtor ghost stories, the GATE conspiracy, and Los Angeles cults. For some reason, listening to uncanny stories brings me great peace right before bed.

I’ve learned not to get excited about New Year’s. I mean, I remember when I was so pumped for 2020, and we all know how that turned out. It’s just another year, another day. And 2025 had been pretty good. Tough in some aspects, but one of the better years out of this godforsaken decade so far.

My goals or resolutions will not be shared on here. No, they’re my little secrets, and we’ll see what happens. It’s between me and God. Maybe God will send me a miracle this year. You know what I want…

Shamelessly Shilling

Get your copy at Amazon.

Music Rec

Yacht rock meets M83. Meet “Walkaway Blues” (feat. J Laser). A song I’m extremely horny for. Imagine the bounce of yacht rock, ultra smooth vocals by the very cute J Laser who sounds right out of the 1981 deep cut “Keep on Running” by Byrne & Barnes, fused with that signature M83 synth-pop sound—I mean, this is Phoenix Ryder core.

I’m a huge M83 fan, but somehow skipped their Junk album in the last fifteen years and just got into it recently. I know it was a commercial disappointment at the time and I don’t think the cover with the Jim Henson-esque-looking puppets helped, but damn, I’m kicking myself for bypassing it when it came out. I’ve seen them on tour three times, and would have loved to hear this one with its French synths and ‘80s sitcom-y theme song feel. Other faves on the album are “Go!” (feat. Mai Lan), “Solitude”, and “Road Blaster.” Enjoy…

Ghosts of flings and crushes past decided to show up unannounced this fall. By text. Not the worst thing in the world, but you realize soon enough why some connections either failed, or were maybe never meant to be in the first place. No matter how much you wanted them to, or thought they might. True colors come out and you realize, oh… this is never gonna happen. Not the way I want it to at least.

I’ve been down this road so many times, I have very little patience for it. And I feel I’ve been very patient with “it.” But it’s futile. Pointless, I’ve realized. Maybe it’s a good thing. A final chapter closing. And I’ve wanted this chapter to close for a long time (or did I?). Wasn’t sure it was ever going to.

Now I can start fresh. Build my life here without ties to anywhere else. Without emotional strings attached to someone who doesn’t really want me at the end of the day. Sounds depressing af, but it’s actually kind of invigorating.

I’ve joined a church, which might sound a little off-brand. But when you’ve been as lonely as I’ve been, well, it’s either stay in this Groundhog Day mind-fuck or go out of your comfort zone. The church is chill. More about connecting with God than guilt-tripping about sinning. They go to breweries after service. They have women’s dinners and Christmas parties. Everyone has been super nice. I’m making age-appropriate friends, which is what I really needed most of all.

I’ve also joined a racquetball club that is really more of a social club, but with a gym and tennis membership. I’m officially middle-aged now. I decided that I needed to participate in the strength training classes to tone my increasingly un-toned forty-six-year-old arms. I’m the youngest person in the class I’d say by fifteen to thirty years. I’m noticing my arms are getting more slim, and the women also invited me to a wine social hour at a house in the hills this past week. Winning.

Paperback Releases

I have news. Finally. The paperback versions for Book 1 are now available on Amazon. Book 2 will be released sometime in January, both ebook and paperbacks. As of right now I’m releasing Synth Noir in both trade and mass market sizes. Why? Because I freakin’ love mass market paperbacks!! That’s why. I’m obsessed with them and collect vintage mass markets from the ‘70s, ‘80s, and ‘90s. I like that they’re pocket-size and you can toss them in your beach bag. I know they’re not for everyone, but they are available for now if you are so inclined.

I don’t have author copies yet so please ignore the big gray stripe that KDP adds to their proofs in the photo. Your copy will obviously not have the big gray stripe, but I wanted to give you guys a sneak peek. Also, the trade size has a matte cover and the mass market size will be glossy. I’m still waiting for KDP to sync everything to one product page so use the links above to get your preferred size.

Music Rec

This seems appropriate right now. Beach House’s Myth. A song a certain someone sent to me a long time ago, that had a big impact at the time because it rang true.

It still does.

“If you built yourself a myth
You’d know just what to give

What comes after this
Momentary bliss?
The consequence
Of what you do to me

Help me to name it
Help me to name it

Found yourself in a new direction
Arrows falling from the sun
Canyon calling, would they come to greet you?
Let you know you’re not the only one

Can’t keep hanging on
To what is dead and gone

If you built yourself a myth
You’d know just what to give
Materialize
Or let the ashes fly”

“I have to remind myself that these feelings mean nothing. It’s human nature, a tiny crush. It’s insignificant, really. I’ll probably have ten to twenty more exactly like this once I’m married.”

Update

Finally. Finally it’s on Amazon. Synth Noir Book 1 is available through Kindle Unlimited, or you can purchase as an ebook. Sigh. Thirteen years I’ve worked on this book, starting in the late summer of 2012. On and off for all this time. It’s insanity actually.

Many of you have been asking about the paperback versions. Yes, there will be paperbacks for all three, but I’m hesitant to give a date yet. This is my first time self-publishing so nothing is a quick turnaround. I just wrapped up proofing on Book 2, and am diving into paperback design. This is a whole other animal I’ve gotta familiarize myself with.

The good news is that I have the time to work on the rest of the releases right now. My insane job from the summer was cooked. The contract ended—which felt very kismet—now I could finally focus and reset. I was beginning to feel there wasn’t an end in sight for Synth Noir. Was I ever going to release this goddamn series?

Anyway, it’s all in the works now and I will be releasing dates as versions are confirmed and ready to go.

Besides that, I’m still a single middle-aged cat lady, Justice groupie who’s currently upset that Amazon has taken Knots Landing off Prime. I’ve taken up gardening. I might take up pickleball to meet cute guys. As you know, I told myself I’m not allowed to date until all of Synth Noir is published, and the universe seems to be holding me to this by cock blocking me every chance it gets. But something is on the horizon. A new chapter. I can feel it.

Music Rec

Been thinking it would be very Synth Noir-esque to share some music going forward. I was listening to Miami Horror’s album, Illumination, while working on the paperback designs today. Great background album, but would be an ideal soundtrack for small summer gatherings. Upbeat, fun, but mellow. Very post-recession indie (2010). Very sunny. Very Synth Noir coded, although it’s not mentioned in the book which takes place in 2012. I highly recommend the whole album.

Housekeeping

Anyone on Goodreads? Hit me up on there.

Synth Noir is currently enrolled in Kindle Unlimited—if you have membership, you can read it for free. It’s like a streaming service for books. A 30-day free trial is available.

You can also purchase the ebook on Amazon, but it’s not available anywhere as an ebook at this time due to its enrollment in Kindle Unlimited. Subject to change.

If you read it, it would mean the world to me if you left an honest review on Amazon or Goodreads. No pressure, of course.

Enjoy.

My landscaper wouldn’t stop hitting on me so I had to fire him. Before that, my cat had disappeared for five days. I posted on NextDoor to see if anyone had seen her. Turns out she was vacationing in my neighbor’s backyard during the day and begging to go into her house at night. She has a home though. She didn’t want to come home? I was devastated. My backyard, which is actually a fairly large patio, has been a wasteland since I moved in. The thought of redoing it was appealing but also expensive. My cat not coming home was the motivation I needed.

I hired a landscaper with about 200 reviews on Thumbtack. He came out to give me a quote and then immediately started hitting on me via text. Not asking me out per se, but telling me my voice was soft and lovely and that I was beautiful. I was more annoyed than flattered, but I took it with a grain of salt since I get zero male attention these days. I told him to keep it professional. He said ok. He gave me a pretty good deal and came out for the job.

He needed to come out a second time to lay out the pea gravel and in between, he started hitting on me again. Annoyed, I told him to stop. He said ok.

After the job was done, and I began laying down my cheap interlocking outdoor tiles from Amazon over the compressed granite (half my patio was concrete, the other half was compressed granite—don’t ask), I realized it wasn’t a stable base. I didn’t want to go through the hassle of finding another landscaper so I texted him to see if he could come out and lay down concrete for that small section so that it would all be the same level. He said he could. I made sure to wear loose clothing and nothing tight or revealing so I didn’t get him riled up again. He came out and did the job and left without any inappropriate comments.

Later that night I texted him to confirm how much I owed him since this time he didn’t send me an invoice. He had quoted me $450. He replied “$500 if you want.” $500 if I want? What the hell does that mean? “Did something change,” I asked him. He didn’t respond. It was late and I was tired and I wanted to be done with him so I just paid the $500. He immediately texted me back that he was joking and sent $50 via Venmo. I was livid, but too tired to deal with his games. This guy was a fucking idiot.

He texted me the next day asking if I got the $50, and I said yes, and why do you keep playing games with me? He responded that he was being sarcastic and asked if I get mad easily. What a dumbass. I didn’t respond. He texted later with a sad emoji. I didn’t respond. He texted the next day, “u mad?” I finally exploded on him that he was being creepy and weird.

What I want to do is to write a scathing review that this guy is totally unprofessional, but I just don’t have it in me to stir the pot. Maybe it’s being a woman and not wanting to cause a fuss. Maybe I'm just tired. Maybe I should just write it. Does he do this to other single women? I’m sure of it. Or maybe there’s something about me that says, mess with me, please. I gave him no indication that I was remotely interested. He’s just an idiot. Should I write the review? It’s not like he actually did anything to me, but to come into my house as a so-called professional and keep hassling me pisses me off.

But I am tired. Very tired. My years of trauma and overwork came to a head last week. I’ve probably been in fight or flight mode for the last fifteen years since getting married and going through a divorce two years later. And the years following, I can’t say any of them have been great. Or even good. They’ve been ok, and a lot have been not good. Some have been terrible.

I found a bump on my thyroid while putting on neck cream last week. And I hit a wall two days later. Energy, gone. Totally depleted. Even my eyesight felt strained. I went to the doctor, and I’m to do bloodwork this week and an ultrasound next week. I slept twelve hours last night and woke up at nearly 11AM. That never happens. My body is saying enough is enough.

I’m scared. I’ve already come to terms that I probably have Hashimoto’s or thyroid disease. I have all the symptoms (exhaustion, weight gain, body aches, etc) that I thought were due to perimenopause. I just hope it’s not anything worse than that.

About two months ago I was working two jobs as a copywriter. One for an agency and a contract gig for a well-known clothing brand. I quit the agency job so I could get a break. I needed a break. My contract was for 25 hours a week. Money would be tight, but that would give me the time I needed to finish publishing Synth Noir. Something I’ve been trying to do forever.

Literally the day after I quit the agency, my manager at my contract gig, asked if I could go up to forty hours a week. I swear to God, this always happens to me. The timing is always off. I wasn’t going to say no to forty hours since I needed the money, but man, I really needed that break. For my sanity.

Not only were my hours going up, but I was going from writing site copy to organic social and paid copy, both of which weren’t really part of my wheelhouse as a copywriter. The stakes were high at my contract gig in general, and the pressure was on. It was an extremely rough couple of weeks making the transition. Timelines were off, I wasn’t getting the support I needed, and more and more was being dumped on my plate.

I got through it, but I think it took a bigger toll on me than I realized. Couple that with ongoing drama (sadness and loneliness) in my social life, the unfinished book series hanging over me, and keeping up with shit in general—well, here we are.

I stopped writing on here because I had nothing to say for a long time. I don’t enjoy writing when it’s forced. I’m a lackluster marketer because of that. I get excited, motivated, and then burn out.

My plan was to come back when the series was fully published on Amazon—to say, here it is guys! It’s ready for you, finally. That was supposed to be about a month ago. Well, it’s not on Amazon yet. I have the first ebook for sale on my author website. And I have all sorts of plans. But now, I have to take it one step at a time.

Lesson learned, that you must have your book totally completed before you start making promises about launch dates and such. I thought I had learned this from my mishap with serializing Van Life on here. But I’ve been working on Synth Noir for so long I thought the final edit (which is actually pretty light) and proofing would be a piece of cake and quick. No. Not when you’re working two jobs and you’re a self-publishing newbie.

It’s fine. It has to be. I can’t beat myself up over it (I have already, too much). For my sanity and my health.

I’m exhausted, but resilient. If there’s one thing that I am, it’s resilient. Cue the orchestra.

I was going to write about the show Rivals tonight, but L.A. is burning to the ground 45 miles away. The Reel Inn is gone. Dukes, who knows. The entire Pacific Palisades neighborhood and houses lining the beach seem to be history.

The wind had died down up here, for now, but we’re supposed to have Santa Ana’s on and off for the next couple of weeks. I can’t stand the Santa Ana’s. They drive me nuts. Literally. I become a different person. The whistling in the air is like Chinese Water Torture.

And it’s dry. And we’re getting text alerts about high winds and fire safety. I mean, at least we’re getting those.

I don’t even know what fire season is anymore. It used to be in September and October. But then we had the Thomas Fire in December in 2017. Now this massive fire in L.A. in January. Any time there’s a hint of a wind, I’m on edge.

Welcome to California.

Anyway, my heart goes out to all the people who lost their homes. The people who had their insurance canceled and then lost their homes? I can’t imagine. People put everything they have into their homes. I know I have. It’s something I think about all the time now. What if…

We’re not prepared for a fire in this town. There’s no where to go but the beach. I bought a little trailer thing I can hitch to my bike to put my cats in if things go south.

Sometimes I wish I didn’t grow up here because it might be easier to pack up and move somewhere else. It looks crazy to anyone who isn’t from here, to stay in this sunny hellscape. But this is my home.

I’m not gonna rant about what a shit hole California has become, but I do think we’re going to have a come to Jesus moment after this disaster in L.A.

This state simply cannot go on like this.

It’s New Year’s Eve as I’m writing this and I’m going to watch Carry-On. I could be camping, drinking, and sleeping in my Subaru Outback at the local lake in Ojai, but I want to be comfortable, not hungover tomorrow, and quite frankly, again, I’ve gone totally yuppie—car camping is no longer appealing.

I bought some long coats over Black Friday. I’m now dressing like Margo from Christmas Vacation. The perfect New Year’s Eve would be wearing one of my new coats, having a few cocktails with some friends in a classy location where there’s potential for flirting, making out at midnight, and having sex with someone that I actually have chemistry with. Since that’s not happening, I’m completely content lounging in my robe, eating pizza and finishing an episode of Knots Landing, then heading into Carry-On.

I’m getting fat. An actual mom bod is forming. My 5’3 frame doesn’t distribute the weight proportionally, and my “loose” jeans are now tight. This is age, hormones, lack of exercise and an extended period of holiday eating, and I’m really feeling not cute at the moment. I want to be skinny again. I want my arms specifically to be skinny since they’re currently skinny fat with about 2% muscle tone. However, I’m not sure I can give up my daily chocolate.

It’s all about moving your body. I’m finally using my TikTok stair stepper on a regular basis, but is it enough? Probably not. I need to go hiking three times a week. I need to get back into yoga. I need to look hot for my non-existent soul mate.

Anyway, I have other goals for 2025, believe or not. I have, yet again, another new author website. Look, I used Squarespace for years, but that shit is expensive. So I switched, and had to build a new site. Anyway, I have the Synth Noir Series ebooks up for presale. I haven’t told anyone yet because I suck at promoting myself. I will also have them for presale on Amazon eventually.

Now I have a deadline. It’s all happening (finally), but I’m nervous. There is a lot to do. I also plan on publishing the paperback versions on the same date, which is a whole other level of “things to do”, but hey, it’s exciting. I’m excited.

I feel the tectonic plates shifting. 2023 was a really tough year—a rock bottom. 2024 was a year of pulling back and getting my shit together. 2025, I can only hope, is a year when things actually happen.

There are only a few goals on my plate for 2025. Gotta keep it simple. Keep my sanity. The 2020s have proven to be a time of learning. Probably for all of us. I’m not sure I know anyone at the moment who feels like they’re thriving.

2024 was a wild year. Highly entertaining in some ways. While 2020-2023 felt dystopian, 2024 felt like a mix of science fiction, a political thriller, and a hint of a throwback to the late 80s/early 90s and the aughts. Gen Z actually became fun. People got a sense of humor again. Free speech is relatively back. Movies were kinda great. We’re ending the year with drones, aliens, fog, and a bunch of other weird shit. Who knows what’s next.

Happy New Year.

I’ve been listening to the Perfume Nationalist incessantly this last week. I need something unrelated to any sort of “news”. I just want to be entertained. Mindlessly entertained.

A lot has happened since I last wrote to you. As usual.

My aunt, my only other relative that lives in California besides my immediate family, passed away rather suddenly. Diagnosed with cancer, and then she was gone within three weeks. It’s been a rough month and half.

It was my 45th birthday just before Thanksgiving. Any desire to celebrate went out the window. I haven’t celebrated my birthday with friends in a meaningful way in about three years or so. I had thought this would be the year I would get a group together, and maybe get hammered for old times sake. But I didn’t have it in me.

Birthdays have become more and more meaningless the older I get. Of course, it’s nice to be remembered. It’s nice to get together with family. It’s harder getting together with friends, especially around Thanksgiving because everyone is busy. I’ve come to dread birthdays simply because of coordinating. I hate coordinating. Texting people from different friend groups to somehow get together at one place, and hope everyone gets along, and it isn’t awkward—just to celebrate me. It’s too much.

My brother forced me to go out for some cocktails. I said just one, and in the early afternoon so I can get home before dark and get cozy. I was tired. But one turned into three, and I had fun.

The rest of this past month or so was spent helping my aunt, and preparing for the worst, but nothing really prepares you for death. I’m lucky I haven’t had a lot of experience with it. She died peacefully, and really, that’s all you can ask for. She was ready. I look at it as a transition, and I think so did she, so I believe having that perspective seemed to help, yet it’s still very sad for the rest of us now that she’s gone.

So, Perfume Nationalist has been a pleasant distraction during a difficult time. I follow Jack on X, but had heard him on both the Red Scare and Bret Easton Ellis pods a couple of years ago. He had tweeted recently that Knots Landing was on Prime, an 80s primetime soap I had heard him talk about and that I vaguely remembered from my childhood, but had never watched.

I started watching.

Knots Landing started the same fall I was born, in 1979. In some ways it’s a different world. In other ways, they were dealing with the same seaside, beach town crap we deal with today—derelicts and suburban drama. I feel like I’ve dated all the husbands on Knots Landing at one time or another. The cheater musician husband who’s never home. The drunk who can’t handle his liquor. The charismatic, but goofy-looking playboy.

The only one I haven’t dated is Sid Fairgate—the caring husband and father. He has his moments too, but his character all in all is a standup guy. I have a massive crush on him.

At this point Knots Landing appears as 1950s TV sitcoms did when I was a kid…very old. I like it because it was a simpler time. Seemingly wholesome, yet the transition period into the 80s that was still very much stuck in the 70s with swingers, beach bikers, and disco.

Each episode of Perfume Nationalist pairs a fragrance with a movie, book, TV show, or soap opera that it’s somehow culturally or spiritually connected with. My So-Called Life is paired with CK One. Safe by Todd Haynes is paired with Giorgio Beverly Hills. In listening to these episodes, I’m realizing I’m about 20 to 30 years behind in fragrance.

I’m not a big fragrance person. I’m actually one of those women Jack frequently makes fun of for not wearing fragrance because they gave me headaches or allergies—although, in the last couple of years I have begun buying perfume here and there. Nothing crazy. A coconut perfume from an independent boutique and Vacation’s signature perfume that ended up smelling literally like bananas (eh).

Other than that, all my fragrance references are from the 80s and 90s. I think my grandmother wore Giorgio Beverly Hills, and of course, I remember all the Calvin Klein ads from the 90s: Obsession with Kate Moss, Eternity with Christy Turlington, and CK One being the height of cool during high school.

I did work at the Robinson’s May fragrance counter during Christmas of 2000, but don’t ask me what was popular or what I liked. I don’t remember, other than maybe Obsession at the time and that Giorgio Armani was requested a lot at the cologne counter. One of my aunts gave me Dior’s Hypnotic Poison, in I think ‘99. That’s about the extent of my fragrance history.

But now, listening, I’ve become enthralled. Of course, I’m more obsessed with the nolstalgic aspect of fragrance—I have no idea what’s cool now or popular. Don’t really care. The Calvin Klein fragrances I remember, the magazine ads with the bent pages that had the scent brushed onto the paper in a sticky glue—that’s what I’m after.

I thought, maybe it would be fun to go to the Macy’s perfume counter and sample some for old time’s sake. Mind you, I never go to Macy’s or the mall anymore. It’s a dead zone. But I was feeling very nostalgic, and thought, what the hell?

So, I went this past weekend. Two weeks before Christmas. Oh, what mistake. It was not the mall I remembered. I think I’ve become some sort of yuppie, appalled by the clamoring, the busyness, the terrible attire of the shoppers. Jesus Christ, do you think you could possibly not dress like utter shit? To have some sort of decorum?

I could only find a few perfumes I recognized at Macy’s; Eternity was one of them. I sprayed it, and found it quite delightful. It’s the perfume that Jack associates with middle-aged women in the early 90s.

I thought Macy’s was bad. Then, I went to Sephora. I thought Sephora must have those old time classics. No. None of them, except for Chanel…which, I’m not sold on. But I could barely try the perfumes at Sephora before getting pushed out of the way, either by men, or sweaty, horribly dressed women. One woman, older and large, with sweat beading on her face, disheveled, and wearing cut off shorts, grinned as she squeezed in front of me and essentially blocked me from trying Coco Chanel. (I wasn’t done, you bitch). I gave up.

Sephora is a shit show. Every one looks like shit, especially the people that work there. It’s like they tell their salespeople to come in looking like they just rolled out of bed and by the way, don’t bother to brush your hair. There’s no point—I mean, this is only a store entirely based on vanity. Remember when Sephora was somewhat elevated, and clean, and the counter girls actually wore makeup and attempted to look appealing? Forget it. Those days are over. The mall is the movie, Idiocracy.

I know I sound like a middle-aged, yuppie bitch. I guess I am one at this point. I really don’t care and when I do finally buy a bottle of Eternity, I will purchase it on the internet.

Almost 45, middle-aged, practically born again virgin obsessed with Nicholas Chavez fan edits on TikTok. I’m exactly 20 years older than him, but what can I say, he’s a man. The first sexy alpha man we’ve seen in a long time, that isn’t tatted or some self-help podcaster.

Two things I haven’t thought about in like 30 years. The Menendez brothers and Milli Vanilli. Both of which are having a comeback, a moment. The Menendez brothers may be getting out of prison, and I just found out after all this time that Fab Morvan from Milli Vanilli can actually sing. Things are strange in 2024.

The north node is changing to Picses in 2025 so expect even more hurricanes and flooding. The planets are in the same alignment as when the Civil War started. The Fourth Turning is playing out as predicted as we head towards the end of the year. Gen Z is obsessed with the throwback “Dirty Cash (Money Talks)” and early 90s rave.

I can’t decide if I like the Monsters edit of Nick Chavez or the Grotesquerie edit more. Something that I have known about myself, yet have been scared to admit, is that I have a thing for hot priests. I have never in my life met a hot priest, and do not know if they exist in the real world. The fetish started when Samantha on Sex and the City tried to seduce an extremely good-looking priest, unsuccessfully. Something I probably would have done when I was younger if I had come across one. I was very, very flirtatious.

I tried to role play once with an ex where he was supposed to be a priest and maybe I was a horny nun? Or maybe I was a widow going to confession…I can’t remember. My ex was extremely offended by my priest fantasy, looking at me like I was crazy. Despite my family’s complicated Catholic background, I didn’t think it was a big deal. His parents were semi-religious, but he wasn’t particularly, and what’s hotter than seducing a holy man that is forbidden from having sex?

My fetish was confirmed when I watched Fleabag—having a forbidden fling with a priest is hot…duh. And now there’s Grotesquerie, where the hot priest is doing the seducing, and I’m sorry, no red-blooded woman would be able to turn down a shirtless Nick Chavez as tortured priest with a six-pack—send me to hell, and pray for my salvation, because I would be unable to restrain my sinful desires.

My body is turning on me. Something is changing inside of me and I have no control. I am of that age where things start to transition. I wake up feeling like I’ve been hit by a train. Too tired to hike, or walk, or use the stair stepper I bought on TikTok to lift and tighten my ass.

I bought gummies that are supposed to help with the “transition”. I also have terrible brain fog, in which I bought Lion’s Mane mushroom powder for focus. I ordered pre-made smoothies online, and pre-made healthy dinners because grocery shopping and cooking are taking too much time in my very busy life as a single perimenopausal, self-published writer, cat lady, landlord, homeowner, copywriter.

The brain fog is interrupting the publishing of Synth Noir. I’ve turned to God for help. I can’t do this on my own. I’m nearly at the end of what I’ve been dreaming of for 12 years, and “marketing” and “proofing” and “planning” make me want to take a long, extended nap. But I must power through. I must trust the process. God, give me strength. God, give me relief from Nick Chavez fan edits and the focus I need to accomplish my mission here on earth.

This newsletter was meant to go out a week ago, or maybe two at this point. Sorry. My weekends lately are spent catching up on laundry, errands, working out, working on self-publishing Synth Noir, and some semblance of relaxation via Love Island U.S.A. My workdays seem to be never-ending. Almost full-time hours (this is good); however, every single task is timed, which somehow seems to make everything take longer. If I'm lucky, I can break away for a walk or a movie on discount Tuesdays at Cinemark.

Last Tuesday I caught The Substance at a mid-day showing. I had a vague idea of what it was about and heard it was a body horror film, which wasn’t a selling point, but didn’t turn me off either. It seemed to have good reviews, Demi Moore, and an 80s/2000s vibe that particularly seemed relatable.

There is one scene where Elizabeth Sparks (Demi Moore) is getting ready for a date. She’s all done up and is about to leave, when “something” triggers an insecurity. She goes back to the mirror and redoes her makeup. This happens about three or four times, and in the end it doesn’t matter how good she initially looked (and she looked great). There’s an anxiety gnawing inside of her, and she keeps revamping her makeup in such an aggressive manner that she does kind of end up looking like shit. It was desperate and sad, and something I think every woman can relate to.

Yet, I don’t know how a movie goes from something as good as the first two thirds of The Substance is (intriguing, dark, emotional, riveting), to the campy, jokey, dumbed down third act that is just horrendous. I won’t spoil the terrible third act with spoilers, but I walked out. I’m shocked this movie received such good reviews.

The week before, I saw the Speak No Evil remake. Entertaining, worth the discounted $7.00 to see in the theater. I hadn’t seen the original, so again, didn’t know what I was going into other than it was a thriller. I try to avoid trailers at all costs because they usually show the whole goddamn movie. I even arrive to the theater 25 minutes late just to miss the trailers, which I had heard for Speak No Evil was overplayed.

Endings of stories are always tricky. This Americanized version I learned later had a completely different ending than the Danish original (which of course I went back and watched afterwards, it’s streaming on Shudder), and the new one wasn’t bad per se. The movie does its job in the sense that it makes you rage at just what pussies the parents are, and it’s entertaining and suspenseful. The end of the original is much more effective and darker, but the American movie as a whole is richer, and the scene where you learn why the little boy is the way he is, is stomach-turning.

I went to see Blink Twice a couple weeks back while it was still in theaters, after being intrigued by the beginning of trailer (turned it off after I got the vibe), and I have to say, the film did its job. I was surprised how much I enjoyed it down to the end. I was expecting it to falter in the third act, and for a minute or two, it did, but then bounced back with a vengeance and I left the theater giddy. Bravo Zoe Kravitz.

There is nothing that I crave more than a good story. Something that makes me giddy. I want to be thrilled. That’s it. I want the story I’m witnessing to give me butterflies. Like a good fling or good drugs. Or in the case of horror, feeling like I got socked in the stomach. Side note: as of late I seem to exclusively go to theaters for horror.

I want the whole package, depending on what that package is. In written form, I want the story and I want the prose. It doesn’t have to be spectacular prose (God knows mine isn’t), but the prose needs to add something. It needs to have some sort of an edge to get me to the finish line.

For movies or TV: the style, the actors (and I’m not talking about how they look, I’m talking about their energy), the editing, and the writing, of course.

Lately, the story that’s been giving me all the thrills has been Industry on HBO Max. I had seen the well done trailer for season 3—it was vague and intriguing. What is this? A show about sales? It showed scenes of Ken Leung yelling at one of his employees, giving me flashbacks to my three very stressful (and also very fun) years of outside sales in the mid-aughts during my 20s.

I saw it starred Myha'la, who had this edge to her in Bodies, Bodies, Bodies and Leave the World Behind (she’s great at playing a bitch, I love it) and even more impactful was the Black Mirror episode, Loch Henry, which if you haven’t seen, just watch it. However, you will get no trigger warnings from me.

Industry is a rare show gets much, much better in the second and third seasons. You have to get through the first season, which is eh, pretty good but has a lot of problems, to get to the gold. Season 2 was great. Season 3 has been on a whole other level—every single episode.

Season 1 isn’t all bad. It’s entertaining enough, but is mostly filled with overly dramatic situations, plenty of (awkward) sex, drugs, and less of the best part of the show—the business side. I still don’t understand what the hell the financial lingo means, but goddamn, the tension in the trading room is riveting.

My main gripe with season 1 is it’s full of sad, semi-gross, mostly monotonous sex scenes that I found myself fast forwarding through. For me, it didn’t add much to the story, but looking back I guess you could say it showed what sex is like for today’s youth. Still, I’m confused if they were trying to make a statement (sad and depressing) or if it was supposed to be titillating.

It made me realize that once again, I’m getting older and yes, a different generation than the ones that grew up on internet porn—because the majority of those scenes I didn’t find sexy at all. Most of them involved awkward sex positions that were frankly hard to watch, and in one scene in particular, bodily fluids used in ways that I think my age group would find disgusting, but that 20-somethings today might find exhilarating, or even just, normal. I really don’t know.

I realized watching Industry Season 1, the cultural shift of sex in movies and TV skewing to a more internet porn vibe. Something I had also noticed in the movie, Saltburn—the new gross out sex trend. A somewhat ridiculous movie that I enjoyed for the most part, but with two graphic scenes that were pretty disgusting, yet were they supposed to be sexy? Again, I really don’t know. One involved a certain bodily fluid left over in a bathtub (just…no, fuck that), and the other involving a hook up while the girl was on her period, that was so gross and unbelievable, it made me queasy.

I haven’t watched porn in years because I don’t find modern porn sexy—bad florescent lighting, no build up of sexual tension, gross actors, close up shots of shit I don’t want to see. In the rare instances I was able to watch porn in my late teens or 20s, it was on cable, which we called Skinamax (to this day I don’t know if that’s a real name or a joke). Basically soft core porn—mood lighting, a lame story generally, maybe a wind machine, and fairly good-looking actors. Cheesy as fuck, and tame by today’s standards, but sexy…or maybe I’m just a woman of a certain generation. There must be good lighting.

Yes, I realize I sound like a grandma when it comes to sex (the irony of that if you’ve read Van Life) and you know what, at this point, maybe I am in 2024. I’m not into “internet sex” whatever that is (but that’s what I’m calling it).

And that’s why as much as I want to shout from the rooftops that Industry is the best show in television right now, I know you’ll have to get through season 1 and some people will be turned off these awkward, often boring sex scenes which seemingly don't bring much to the plot. Regardless, I can’t recommend Industry enough. There’s less focus on the gross out sex trend in seasons 2 and 3, and the show, in my opinion, is much better for it. And yet, ironically, somehow the character development in season 3 actually makes all those tediously bad sex scenes in season 1 come full circle.

Once you get there, I’m telling you, this is the next Succession. I’d even say season 3 of Industry is better than the last season of Succession.

The coke scene between Eric and Yes in the first episode of season 3, is pure gold. And that’s just the beginning of a wild, wild episode 1, and subsequently, the entire season. And don’t worry, if you’re into bodily fluids, there’s a jarring scene in a bathroom stall that’ll leave you scratching your head, thinking wtf…they actually showed that?

The Zillennials/Millennials (I don’t even know anymore) had a 90s bike n’ brew crawl on Saturday. I told my friend I’m not going. I think I’m growing out of this phase, I told him. He responded, you don’t want to go for a bike ride with friends? I knew I would get pushback. No, I’m just old, blah, blah, blah…I didn’t want to get into it. Will you at least come to the silent disco afterwards? No, I don’t have it in me, I said. I didn’t say the reason was because the last one was so awkward for me, even though I wanted to tell him and I will at some point, if we ever get together for just a beer or a joint instead of an “epic” event.

I went camping Labor Day weekend in San Diego. To Julian, an old mountain mining town that specializes in apple pies. It was hot as fuck. It was fun, but difficult. San Diego opens up old wounds in me. But it was worth going. Maybe not for Labor Day traffic. Maybe not inland on one of the hottest weekends of the year. But worth it to see some old friends and co-workers. We went to bed early because the campground had a strict “no fires after 11pm” rule. I think secretly most of us were fine calling it a night at 11. We’re all in our 40s, tired, and worn out to a certain degree. It was nice to shoot the shit and joke around and listen to classic rock. No country, no EDM, just some Steve Miller, 38 Special, Fleetwood Mac, and whatever else was on the playlist. That aspect was comforting.

On the way back I stopped by Encinitas in North County where I lived a previous life. A reminder of twelve crucial years. A reminder of stories without closure, with a sunny backdrop where everyone is great looking. It felt like I never left, it’s bizarre. I saw one of my best friends and her two little girls. We went to the beach and got a coffee. It was nice, but she’s worried about me because I’m all alone. She doesn’t understand why I’m still single after all these years. Dating sucks, I shrugged. She’s been with her guy for fifteen years. She has no idea. I told her men my age, or older for that matter, never hit on me. The men I want to hit on me (perhaps a middle-aged Sam Elliot or Tom Selleck look-alike). I only get hit on by younger guys for some reason. I told her I have PTSD from my divorce, subsequent shitty relationship, and all the bad dates I’ve been on since the subsequent shitty relationship. I was being dramatic, but it’s also true. I don’t even know how to flirt anymore.

Whether I like it or not, this is the sort of stuff I’m faced with whenever I go out. Everyone I know is in a couple. Like, 99% of the people I know. I’m always the third, fifth, or seventh wheel now. Camping, silent discos, birthday parties, graduations—it’s all couples.

Whatever.

It shouldn’t be this difficult. It should be easy to meet the love of your life. Or even someone you just click with. It should just magically happen. It’s happened for me before—many times. I tell myself it’s all in divine timing. Vaya con Dios. I’m not worried about it. I just despise going out now. Instead of God cock-blocking me, I cock-block myself.

The only “older” guy (probably a mere three to five years older than me) that’s given me the time of day is a manager at an unnamed grocery chain. You know, that chain where they wear Hawaiian shirts. Anyway, I sort of developed a crush on him because he looked, I don’t know, normal. He had good hair, graying. He had a mustache, which I’m a sucker for. Clean, dressed well. Looked like a dad.

One day, sometime last year, he helped carry out my groceries to the car. There was definitely an energy there, but I’m so cautious these days I was scared to flirt. To really flirt how I used to when I actually had game. Now I’ve been rejected so many times in my 40s or conversely, don’t want to open the door to guys who seem “off” (and there’s a lot of guys who seem “off” when you reach your 40s), that I don’t know how to act around men in general. So I have a wall up and I’m awkward as fuck.

We had a moment or whatever, it wasn’t that deep. But somewhat exciting for my excruciatingly boring love life. After that we would catch eyes with each other every time I went into unnamed grocery store. Now he seemed nervous, but I kind of liked that I made him nervous. I would go out of my way to smile at him, and watch him squirm. I was sure he was divorced with kids, he just had that vibe. I had the fantasy that he would help carry out my groceries again so we could get down to business. Is he single? Is he going to ask me out? Could we have a passionate secret make-out sesh behind my parked Subaru Outback?

Well, turns out he’s married. Of course. Story of my life. Yet, we still catch eyes. However, now I’m the one squirming. This has happened three times recently where he’s locked eyes with me, and now that I know he’s married, I stand there like a deer in headlights and don’t know what to do. I can’t do what I want to do. I force a smile and walk away quickly.

It’s no secret that I’m in the middle of a midlife crisis. I’ve said it before and it continues.

I don’t know how to get out of it. No red sports car or fling with a younger guy is going to do it. A vacation might help, but I can’t afford one right now. This is why I live vicariously through younger people on shows like Love Island, Industry, and Tell Me Lies where romance and careless thrills are effortlessly at their fingertips.

By the way, Industry is the best show on television right now. We’ll chat about that later…

Last night…

It’s 7pm on Sunday and I’m just now hopping on here. Today was supposed to be my writing day. My all day writing day. Instead it turned into finishing my budget and cleaning day.

I had to do my budget because like many other citizens of the modern world, I’m overextended and have no idea where my money goes. My mortgage is due in five days and this is when I start to get a little agitated.

Yesterday was supposed to be my budget day. But I had to work for about 4 to 5 hours to catchup on some freelance I was behind on. I also took a nap because I was tired and went for what turned out to be a very leisurely walk scoping out neighborhood gardens. Inspiration for when I can finally afford to redo my hideous patio (the one with the naked cherub statues the previous owner left behind) in 2-3 years time. So I didn’t start my budget until 8pm Saturday night while binging Love is Blind UK.

Turns out I made decent money last month for the first time in many moons. Since I was laid off from full-time work last year, I haven’t made a budget. It was way too depressing, considering I had no money.

In the last month I was at least able to order some new clothes from Shein (yup, I’m that asshole). It had to be done because 75% of my jeans don’t fit anymore. It’s not like I’m overweight, I’m just over 40. My 20s and 30s’ tight little bod has been replaced by bigger hips and belly fat that seemingly won’t go away. Now I’m really into wide leg pants with a stretchy waist because I want to be comfortable. I’m basically dressing like one of the Golden Girls.

I was supposed to get up early and finish my budget this morning, but of course I didn’t sit down to do that til 10am. Not the unrealistic 8am start time I envisioned (I never actually start on time). Today’s budget took about three hours because I write out everything I spend my money on and analyze it to see where I can cut back, and squeeze in another Shein order for additional wide leg stretchy pants and oversize t-shirts because I also enjoy dressing like a Gen Z teenager. Simply because of the comfort factor.

There is no reason I need to spend $60/month on Adobe Creative Suite when I only use Photoshop. FreshBooks can be put on hold until I have clients that don’t time track every second I work. SpyFu was another goner because I don’t have time to SEO optimize my site even if I wanted to (and I want to). I kept Netflix. I kept my Bret Easton Ellis and Red Scare Patreon subscriptions. You have to live a little.

Then I spent the next five hours today cleaning. It was supposed to be just two, but I don’t know what happened. I kept seeing things that needed to be scrubbed, wiped down, and washed. Then I had to iron the clothes that have been hang drying for the past four days, so that they don’t sit in a pile in my room for the next five days. I also had to rake all the pine droppings and leaves on my hideous patio, wash the rugs, and sweep. All before my roommates got home because I’m the only one who cleans and I’m renting out my house to them, so I guess that’s how it works?

Anyway, it’s almost 8pm. I’ve been wanting to write for the last two weeks, but where does the time go? I went to see Longlegs weeks ago and was planning on writing a review for you guys. Long story short, it was ok. Wasn’t scary, but was entertaining. Also funny, but confusing to me whether it was supposed to be. Everyone in the theater was laughing at the horror bits, including myself.

I tried to watch La Chimera on Hulu because I’ve been obsessed with Josh O’Connor since Challengers, but my God. It just was so goddamn slow. Also it took place in Italy in the winter? All the Italians were really pale. As a somewhat pale person of part Italian descent myself, I decided movies set in Italy should always be during the spring and summer when everyone is tan.

I’ve been re-watching Game of Thrones (a delight) and getting through Industry (a head scratcher), and of course watching shitty UK dating shows when I need to turn my brain off.

The good news is I’ve been getting more work. This is what I wanted. No, this is what I needed. But I’m sitting here and wondering where my weekend went. It’s over and I’m going to bed in an hour.

I’m feeling very weepy today. I couldn’t cry all week for some reason. Then it happened today while I was watching the season finale of Love Island UK. My favorite contestant won. Well, I started crying before that when Mimi and Josh were reading their love notes to each other. Burst into tears out of nowhere. Didn’t help when Love Island showed the home videos of the final contestants’ families wishing them well from Whales and London. Continued to cry when the winners were announced, and for about five minutes afterwards. It’s great TV. Also, my hormones are raging.

I can cry freely since I’m single. I don’t have a boyfriend or partner anymore giving me a weird look asking why I’m crying and telling me how emotional I am. Rewatching Ned Stark’s last day on Game of Thrones? Cue the tears. Coming across Instagram videos of deaf toddlers hearing their parents for the first time? Forget about it.

I cried when I wrote the last chapter of Van Life, no surprise there. I was nervous to release it this past week. I thought, did I take it too far? The story. The outcome. Simply because I’m an emotional woman. If I were a dude, I don’t think the thought would even have crossed my mind.

It was easy to write the end. I could picture it so clearly. I wrote it the way it could have really happened, which is why it was so brutal. I tried to think of other scenarios, but the characters wouldn’t allow it. Reality wouldn't allow it. I’m not in charge of my characters or where the story goes. Once I’m typing, they tend to take on a life of their own. I think things will go in one direction, and they go in another.

I’m considering writing an epilogue for the book release down the line. Not your typical epilogue. I think Leilani and Tyler deserve that at least. There are a lot of layers in this book. Nuggets if you’re paying attention, even within the soundtrack I created along with it. Or maybe they’re completely obvious, and I’m too in it to tell.

Van Life will be up for a while and then I will be removing it from Substack, and eventually after I finish prepping Synth Noir for ebook and god-willing, paperback release, I will edit Van Life.

You guys got the first draft here. Normally, I would not be sharing first draft material like this (that was not the case with Synth Noir), but it had to get done. I didn’t want to leave you hanging for another year. A lot of editing needs happen. I’m not thrilled with a lot of the later prose as I was on a time crunch, but the basic grittiness of the story is there, which is what I needed at this point.

The finessing will come later.

Thank you to those of you that stayed for the entire novel, and those that came on board later. I hope you were entertained at the very least.

So what does this mean for my presence on Substack now that I will not be sharing any fiction in the near future? I’ve decided to make Substack the general newsletter for my author website. Newsletter as in what I typically write in these sort of life updates plus book release info, links to the blog, a humorous rant here or there, etc. I was flirting with the idea of leaving Substack (some technical aspects here drive me fucking up the wall) but right now it’s easier than dealing with MailChimp, or yet another platform.

At some point, I will be starting a new novel that I’ve had in my head for a while. I’ll be honest, I don’t think I will be sharing that one on here. It’s too much pressure time-wise, and takes away from the creative aspect. I need to be a digital hermit to get in the zone of writing a novel. The next one will be the third part, not in a series, but in a similar realm. Although Synth Noir and Van Life are unrelated, for me, the writer, they both come from the pain that was my 30s (please don’t take this too literally by what’s in the books—consider the novels long-winded metaphors), and this last one will tackle what I hope is, the end of this very difficult chapter of my life.

Anyway. I’m looking forward to having a newsletter on here and excited to actually publish a real book. Stay tuned for updates.