There is no doubt that this year’s Grammys was profound.
Injustice was a prequel to the first Grammys of the decade following the realization that the voting process had been rigged based on race, gender, and a toxic workplace. Taylor Swift even pulled her own performance from the show, continuing to break out from the socially-unaware cocoon she was placed in for her entire career, which plagued her ability to share her political views. (Just days before the premiere of her Netflix documentary Miss Americana, where she will address how she was conditioned to be “spineless” to maintain her squeaky clean image.)
It’s the night of your Circles release, and I’m emotional.
I was never a huge fan of you. Frankly, I’d written you off, because even though your music was popular throughout my late middle school and high school years, I didn’t think I was old enough to listen to your music. I thought you were just like every other rapper, because you penned lyrics about your addictions and women. I was naive back then, afraid of rap music. I didn’t think you were anything out of the ordinary.
Today, I watched Five Feet Apart, and acknowledge how incredibly I am to seeing this movie. Although, I’m usually a connoisseur of the sad, cliche, chronic illness film. The Fault in Our Stars is my go-to movie, and I’ve probably watched it close to one hundred times since its first release in 2014. Then Came You, another cancer film that wasn’t so mushy, was so noteworthy that I wrote an article about it here. Now is Good was a masterpiece for a film, equipped with the stereotypical tan guy with fantastic hair, and the heart-wrenching talent of Dakota Fanning.
There it is: my book.
It’s lying in a protective, black padded envelope decorated in blue tape.
My heart is lying within those pages of the book, but I haven’t even picked it up yet. Why? It’s because I’m scared. Not scared because I don’t believe in myself and the work. But, I’m coming to terms that the three months of DMs and emails back and forth with my publisher have come to an end. It’s printed, delivered, and ready to be shared with the world. I don’t think I’m ready yet.
The simultaneous back-and-forth opening and closing of another episode of Amazon Prime x The New York Times’ Modern Love and a dating app has been my day today. I got tired of waiting by the phone for my interest to text me. I was making myself nauseous from replaying the memories from last month that we shared together, trying to piece together the puzzle of what every little word and lingering glance has meant in the months we’ve known each other. In doing so, I was only flaring up my chronic illness more.
Instagram is like a bad ex-boyfriend.
It’s a toxic relationship that you just can’t seem to quit.
Instagram insists on pulling you back in.