Who I am (in case you're confused)

A taxonomy of your confusion, insecurity, and your nips getting twisted up (for all the reasons)...

In the day of our Substack, 9.

I’m quickly coming to realize that there’s something about how I present online that confronts people, confuses people, or just damn well delights them.

The latter I can handle like a champion. You are my people. I will uplevel the weird until you flatline.

Now, regarding the confused and emotionally constipated, this is where I really enjoy dabbling. The main reason is that I have been focusing more on Substack because I love the texture of the people here.

I love that one moment I’m shown something that makes me question whether I’m crazy or not (“Holy fuck, the algorithm IS racist”), then makes me want to get back into writing my own novels, or I see a note that is just absolute horseshit and I must fucking throw down about what is actually possible for us, as creatures—

Because, you know, if artists actually stood up to things as a united front, instead of bitching about their editing process and whether love is attainable [boo-hoo], we could actually make changes instead of sulking and brooding like that’s still a cool personality trait.

—And then I’m bashed over the ocular gland with an entire encyclopedia of people praying to Substack like a deity that, with enough perfectly crafted SEO wishes, will inspire hundred of ideal clients (I mean…. er… readers….) to descend upon them like they themself pull God’s levers, showering them with wallets and praise.

Maybe that’s because I don’t focus on really… any niche.

I used to be in branding. I understand how it works. I also understand how useless branding yourself is if you have no fucking clue who you are.

That was my entire thesis before people started marketing it like they knew what they were talking about. I charged 30k a package because I knew no one would buy it, and if they did, they GOT it.

I wasn’t delivering clients design (not really). I was peeling apart who they were for hours at a time until we could actually even consider “brand” as a consideration.

The wild thing: for most people who bought, we were able to get them completed and profitable within the month.

No one purchased who couldn’t handle it. Because the truth is this:

People would rather pretend to know who they are than be confronted with the fact that someone can see them who doesn’t want to hurt them.

I’m not a deity, but you should pray that I look at you if you want to grow. Because if I do, and I say something to you that rattles your bones, it means I see something in you worth mentioning.

Your fiery replies are orgasmic to me; it means what I said struck a nerve so deep you’ll stew in it and make a decision about yourself, and hopefully, your life.

Complacency is the unsexiest thing in the world. God. Get your dick away from me if you think copy and pasting from ChatGPT is “hustle”. If you think your conversations in your head mean you are empathetic. If you spout advice and haven’t even stood in the fire you claim to produce (and package, and sell).

If you can’t look someone in the eye and tell them the truth, you’re not empathetic; you’re hiding inside your emotions, not feeling others’ pain.

When people lash back out at a truth, it’s not about me.

That’s the beauty of actually knowing who you are. No one’s words can stick to you. They only reveal the way in which they view themselves.

If someone says you’re dumb (or the delightful contrast, “I’m so smart”), whether verbally or through pretentious acts, and ALSO refuses to be silly, they’re straight up insecure. It doesn’t matter what your IQ is; that scam is broken, anyway.

Smart people who are confident laugh at their absurdity. They dance in it like piss puddles at a festival. Splashing around in the joy of life. Those are the people worth following.

Not contrarians for the sake of clicks, not clowns with soft, easy jokes, not the ones who clearly went to Harvard and would like you to know about it. The ones who write: “soup” and 50 people respond to it with banter that actually clicks.

Fucking, soup.

If someone says, “You misunderstood what I said,” as a defence mechanism, not because you actually did, it’s because your honesty landed in a part too tender to be viewed. That’s what people mean when they say “a blind spot”.

This is blatant. And it’s not their fault, either. That’s trauma talking. The part that wants to lean in and is too afraid to risk humiliation another time.

People who don’t understand me and want to will ask questions and seek clarity. They will not lash out. They might be confused, but they clarify. That’s emotional intelligence. These people need their work promoted. They have stories worth sharing, and being heard.

Like my new chum David C. Roberson. (Understated talent. Great human being. He’ll deny both, the saucy cunt). ACCEPT YOUR RADIANCE, DAVID. ✨

Back to the plot: Lashing out is what emotionally stunted people do. Again, not their fault, but not your burden to carry.

That’s why this group is my very favourite breed of people, because they are the same who can cause great damage by pretending to be smart and aware.

There’s a difference between saying “I am deep” and being deep.

Deep people don’t think they are, they’re just used to (most) people glazing out in front of them.

Fuck. You want to set someone deep on fire? Meet them.

Me? That’s what I am waiting for. Faux-deep is almost as bad as incompetence. It’s an anti-aphrodisiac. My ovaries shrivel up, and my eggs turn to dust. poof*

I’d rather hear, I enjoy you, and I can’t meet you, because then we can still play together.

Pretending to be something you’re not, hiding behind insecurity, letting curiosity be the thing that leaves you feeling most exposed? They’re clues.

So, if I’ve ever confused you: welcome. Let’s talk. DM me. I don’t bite.

But here’s the deal: I will be honest with you, I won’t sugarcoat what I see, and if my play is too much for you, it’s fair to tap out. I just won’t be blamed for your insecurities.

I came on here to translate myself into the flavours of confusion I’ve experienced over the last 9 days, so let’s continue. These are (some of) the groups of people I’ve interacted with this week (I didn’t include the incels, because well… that’s a whole other story…):

The 20-30-year-old women who write soft fantasy, poems, and whispers. The ones wanting to curl up on the couch and sip tea, wrapped in a blanket that envelops you like a warm hug— the one you’re still waiting for, from the one you’re thinking of right now: I am the woman who will hold your hair on the night she forces you out of your sweats and into that outfit you wish you bought at the mall last Sunday. I am the one who will show you that you are the party, even if you’d prefer to stay out of the spotlight. Your words have a place here, even if promoting yourself feels like a spotlight you don’t want, while secretly enjoying it, and fearing it, simultaneously. I am for you.

To the woman who wants to share her story and hides behind fantasy because life feels too fragile to step out into, because past hurts marred you with wounds too deep to acknowledge when aired: It’s okay to be angry. It’s not okay to lash out. I am the one who will hold your hand and sit by your side until you’re ready to speak. I’ll wait. I’m here when you’re ready. I’ll bring weed if you want (if you want to fuck-kill me now, just wait). I’ll absolutely bring you a casserole, because I realize I’ve entered an age where I give off milf vibes. I’m okay with that. I’ll be your milf, if I must. But mostly, I’ll be the friend who finally doesn’t let you get away with your bullshit, which is what you’ve always wanted. I am for you.

To the men who are married and banter and wait to see, and the single men who poke and prod and see if I’ll snap: I won’t. I was married to you for 9 years, together for 13. Before that, I grew up in a household that moonlit as a psychological fighting pit. There’s not a single sting I haven’t heard out of the person who vowed to never hurt me or from the woman who gave me life. I am not cold, and I am not into you, but I enjoy snapping you awake inside of what you think your insecure prodding will produce in me. Be kind, dickwad. There’s no space for that here. If you can handle that, you are welcome here, but I am not for you.

To the men who watch in the shadows and say little: Keep watching, and grow. I am for you.

To the neurodivergent and queer folks who pass my way and enjoy the silly: I enjoy YOUR silly, ya silly little toot head. Send me memes, send me dogs, share your stories that make you cry and piss at the same time. <3 I am abso-fucking-lutely for you.

And this one is private, but I’m fucking going here, because only a bitch does things 99% of the way. To the man I keep calling forth with my lack of concern about how it’s perceived, I’m not ready for you… yet. Come back in 1-3 months. I have to finalize my separation. Stop being so damn impatient. But… BY GOD SIR, WHEN I GET MY HANDS ON YOU...

[Ahem]

All of this is to say:

Confusion does not equate to stupidity.

Asking for clarity is emotional intelligence, not a marker of your domination.

Emotional intelligence is fucking hot.

Let’s all just enjoy our lives out here in this crazy fucking journey.

And let’s— all of us— just be a little less dickwad-y to each other, okay?

Kay. My people.

So, with all that in the background, I just wanted to say:

“Heyyyy, guys!!! Smash that subscribe button! LIKE, SHARE, COMMENT.”

<3