Hello there. It’s been a while, no? To summarize, Tucson was good, even though I got sunburned just walking down the street. Dyke Day L.A. was good, a punk rock picnic with dykes and dogs and babies, on a hill next to the house Frank Lloyd Wright built for an eccentric, radical actress and the daughter she called Sugartop. I took a bunch of pictures, which I’m too lazy to upload, so I’ll direct you to LAist’s photo essay (my back is visible in one of the pics. See if you can see me—it’s like Where’s Cheryl? Hint: Look for a brown and orange shirt).
In between the fun stuff, my moody streak has continued. So I’m back in therapy, where Señor Freud, as AK calls him, is helping me repeat over and over that I don’t have to be flawless to deserve love. Eventually maybe my superego will believe it. Or just shut up. I can’t remember what the superego is supposed to do. All I know is that it’s been acting like a playground bully to my shredded little ego.
AK and I are going on vacation next week. That means more sparse blogging for a while, but when I do write, it’s more likely to be about the vistas and 9:30 p.m. sunsets of rural Washington than my vague angst. So I think we’ll all win.