𝐃 𝐗 𝐌 𝐈 𝐍 𝐈 𝐐

^{image: August Malmström, “Dancing Fairies” (1866)}

Twenty years ago, I didn’t think I’d be sitting in a coffee shop in the East Bay, sipping matcha like a calm, centered adult who experiments with fountain pen ink for fun.

I’m not bored—I just quit my job after catching my own reflection and thinking, Oh god, what even is this? Like… who was I performing for? Definitely not my therapist, who I was actively avoiding. My body was breaking down. My brain felt like it was permanently buffering. So I stopped. Now, I go outside. I count calories. I lift things. I try—emphasis on try—to enjoy life offline, mostly because I pinky-promised myself I’d figure out how to have one good day a day. It’s the most depressively optimistic mantra I’ve got.

Lately I’ve been into listening to full albums while attempting to teach myself how to speed-read again, because apparently labor erodes every single soft skill you’ve ever had. I used to be smart. Now I highlight things like it’s a kink.

Lambrini Girls – Who Let the Dogs Out
Like if Bikini Kill mainlined four vodka Red Bulls and got lost in a UK pub toilet. The chaos is aggressive but delightful. Phoebe Lunny sounds like she’s actively combusting and I respect that. “Cuntology 101” is what I imagine blares in hell’s girlboss wing. It’s loud, unhinged, gloriously exhausting—like being screamed at by your favorite cousin during a manic episode.

Spiritbox – Tsunami Sea
Courtney LaPlante’s voice is still a supernatural phenomenon, but this EP feels like it’s afraid of offending anyone’s ears. It’s clean, almost too clean. “Black Rainbow” hits, but I kind of miss the part where it felt like she might crawl out of the speaker and claw her way into my soul. Bring back the violence. I need it.

André 3000 – 7 Piano Sketches
[cue me vibrating like a rescue chihuahua in a thunderstorm]
He’s literally out here just… playing piano. No words. No explanations. No rules. Just André, vibing like it’s 3 a.m. and he accidentally got too high at a silent retreat. “Off Rhythm Laughter” sounds like a haunted dream I don’t want to wake up from. “Hotel Lobby Pianos” has me swaying like I’m about to emotionally unravel in a trench coat. Is any of it finished? Not even slightly. Do I care? Absolutely not. He wore a piano on his back to the Met Gala. Let the man tinker. This is jazz. This is chaos. This is art. Icon behavior, period.