A Good Girl

beyond the praise

Before “good girl” was a phrase unimaginative, shirtless men smirked on social media, it was something else. Sometimes praise, a gendered version of “good job! Not only have you done this thing well, but you have pleased me. You are a success.” And sometimes, it meant “don’t make me prioritize you.”

Stick with me.

The memes are funny now, but us GenX’ers were often left home alone at young ages. The Latchkey Kids. Our parents and guardians would leave home or prepare us to come home from school to an empty house by saying stuff like “don’t open the door for anybody. Be good.” It wasn’t just a plea not to tear up the house or to be wise in the face of stranger danger. It was also a hope that nothing would go wrong the parents would be blamed for. An unattended kid burned down the house by playing with matches… Well, where are the parents? They must be bad.

You have to be good so no one else looks bad.

Be a good girl and sit there and be quiet.
Don’t remind anyone of your presence. Don’t make us have to acknowledge you.

Here’s a gift that doesn’t fit or suit your tastes. Be a good girl and say thank you.
Don’t remind me I couldn’t be bothered to pay attention to you. Don’t make me feel bad for not caring. Just be grateful you got anything at all.

Good girls don’t complain or cry.
Don’t make me have to consider your feelings or try to make you feel better.

Don’t ask why mommy or daddy didn’t do the thing they said they would. Good girls don’t ask nosy questions.
Let me disappoint you in peace and without responsibility.

To be a good girl is to allow yourself to be neglected or overlooked.

You know I listen to a lot of erotic audio and read a lot of “spicy” romance. I also enjoy dirty talk in my own private GrownUp Time. In the freaknasty context of “good girl,” it often means “you let me do anything I wanted to you without asking me to consider if this actually feels good to you.”

You were choking and crying and gagging and sometimes you even looked a little scared. Good girl.

Are you gonna be a good girl and let me fuck you in the ass? Are you gonna be a good girl and let me overlook that you don’t really like it, haven’t done any prep, and it causes you discomfort for the next day or two?

A while ago, I was listening to an erotic audio, and the guy said something along the lines of “you don’t have to be a good girl for me. You can be bad and ask for what you want…”

Do you see? To be bad is to make yourself, your desires known.

Sometimes the adult version of being a good girl is to be the cool chick.

You’re so cool. You don’t ask me why I haven’t texted in days and let me pop up whenever I remember you exist, like when no one else is available.

We saw you from across the room and thought you seemed really cool…

Yeah, she’s pretty chill. She never asks “what are we?” or tries to put a label on anything, even though we’ve been hanging out forever and she does all this cool girlfriend stuff for me. It’s just so chill, you know?

The cool chick lets life flow as it will and never gets upset or asks anyone to consider her needs. She’s so laidback and never makes anyone feel bad for not treating her better.

Yes, sometimes The Cool Chick doesn’t want attachments and enjoys her freedom as much as anyone else, but I’m asking you to think about when and why The Cool Chick most often gets praised. What happens as soon as she expresses herself in a way that makes someone else uncomfortable? What happens when she asks for accountability?

I thought you’d be cool with this. I thought you’d let me do whatever I want. I thought you were a good girl.

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In 1999, my college boyfriend of 4 years broke up with me, and Angie Stone’s “No More Rain (In This Cloud)” came out. I latched on to the song, of course, especially the second verse, because he basically told me he needed to have his ho phase.

So you want to live and to you I shall give
All the space that you requested
Hope you don't live to regret it
So you say you're in your prime
Baby, don't waste your time
Remember my love
It's only a thin line…

In July 2000, I watched Angie Stone perform the single at Essence Fest.

I am not good with grief. I resent its uncontrollable, sneaky nature. I isolate myself to deal with it. That summer, I still felt stuck in a kind of mourning. It wasn’t just the relationship that was gone. It was all the plans I’d made for my life. At least, that’s what it felt like at the time.

Angie Stone performed to a packed room full of people- but especially women- of all ages. She sang the verses mostly by herself, the audience letting her beautiful voice shine, but when it came time to the chorus and that closing bridge… The song became gospel. Everyone joined in…

Spring has come and winter's gone, my love
But don't look around for me, child
I'll be gone, gone, gone, gone
Not afraid
Because the seasons have changed
I'm gonna count my blessings
And just follow the sun…

Hundreds of people raising their heads to the sky, throats shaking not only from lost love’s mourning and the pain of healing, but also from the determination to keep going. I was moved to tears. It had been a long time since I felt that hopeful.

In a dark room in the New Orleans Superdome, a community of Black women from all over the world called down the sun, and I thank Angie Stone for that. May she be at peace.

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• Please, listen to me. You can still enjoy being called good girl or good boy. No one is telling you to remove it from your praise bank. Good boys go in my Hall of Fame. *looks at the camera* I just be thinking sometimes.

• No, I still haven’t seen Babygirl, starring Nicole Kidman. Once I realized her character would lose her mind over young dude, as opposed to reveling and growing in the freedom of sexual pleasure, I lost my taste for it.

• Since I’ve moved back home, my language has changed, morphing back into the cadence and poetry of the south. The other day I thought “I gotta pee so bad, my eyes are swimming.”

• My father is in hospice care now. Thank you to everyone who sent kind thoughts my way. As you can imagine, I’m having a lot of complicated feelings, especially as I look through stuff to find ways to mark his life. I had forgotten that my father used to email me song recommendations. Sharing music is one of my love languages, as many of you may know, and I guess that’s something else I got from him. Here is a playlist of all the music my father suggested to me. It has over 10 hours and 10 years of recommendations. There’s a wide range of music and I didn’t try to make it make sonic sense, so just hit shuffle. I hope you enjoy it.

I Think My Father Is Dying

In one way or another, I’ve been mourning him for a long time.

Until my 30s, I held a lot of anger and resentment toward my father. He had not been a good spouse or parent. As soon as I came to understand these things, I was irritated that he’d made me another woman with daddy issues. How dare he make me so common.

I’ve never forgiven him for the harm he caused our household, but one day I woke up and I was tired. There’s that expression, “it takes more energy to hate than to love…” or whatever. I could feel how much of my spirit the hate was eating up. I didn’t want to die early because my anger was eroding me, so I turned it off. I couldn’t forgive or forget, but I could rebuild myself, shovel out the ashes of what the anger had burned, and put up something new. People pave over cemeteries often.

We’ve all learned to live with ghosts.

A couple of years ago, I had to help figure out my father’s care when it became obvious he could no longer live alone. The resentment roared back to life, a hidden ember ready for the slightest breeze to flame hot inside my head. He dodged his parental responsibilities my entire childhood and now I was expected to provide care I was never given. The smoke was hard to choke back. It stung my eyes. That’s probably why I kept finding tears on my cheeks after every phone call.

I think that’s when I started to mourn him… and what he could’ve been… to me, our family, himself. Instead of a girl with daddy issues, I was almost a daddy’s girl. I was his first born and he loved me. He told me I was smart and funny. But he hurt my mama and did other bad things, so he was my first lesson in learning that love is not enough.

This past Christmas, I visited him in his nursing home. He didn’t remember me or my brother, or that he had children at all. He kept speaking to me as if I were a stranger in a store: “Excuse me, ma’am. Can you help me?” The nurses told me he’d stopped reading. My father has always had a book with him– anything from the history of esoteric religions to science fiction. He loved reading. I guess that’s where I got it from. When the nurses told me that, I knew it was a matter of time before he was gone.

Today my father is in the ICU. He is better than he was yesterday, but the medical staff keeps gently suggesting we figure out DNR plans. Do Not Resuscitate. We have to balance quality of life against… everything. We made arrangements for the chaplain to visit him.

My father doesn’t remember our family. He doesn’t remember the hurt he caused, but the chaplain will offer forgiveness.

Does his soul remember? Will his spirit stay behind to make things right?

My father’s ghost has haunted me all of my life.

Emergency Thirst Report

David Beckham, you sunnuvabitch

I actually have no strong feelings about David Beckham. I understand the appeal and his cultural significance, but if you were to ask me to give you my top 100 celebrity crushes, I wouldn’t even remember him to consider him. I’m sure he is devastated by this.

Mert & Marcus directed the latest BOSS ad, starring Beckham, and baby. I want to send them a big piece of chocolate pound cake, still warm from the oven.

As I started watching the ad, I was enjoying myself. “Oh, this is nice. Very sexy.” But in an almost clinical way. And then he unbuttoned his pants– his trousers– and the way he moved his hand back to expose the BOSS logo, right above his package, at the same time the little church bell hit in “In the Air Tonight,” playing in the background… My kewch became a fist I wanted to throw at his face. Oh.

The infamous drum breakdown arrived as he did some pull-ups so we’ve got BOSS DICK very softly in our face. It could’ve been a lot more aggressive, but they were like “no, baby. I’m gonna give you what you need but don’t rush it.” I said “okay. Thank you.”

And then he sat like a slutty good boy. I thought… well. I’m not going to tell you what I thought because it’s some stuff I would say to one of my subby pets, and you don’t need to know all that.

He got cheeky in the shower *wink wink* as people watch. Yadda yadda. You’ve seen the ad.

So what makes this ad so hot? Is it just the man and his sauce? Maybe. My personal thirst preferences probably don’t make me the target audience, but this video is undeniable. I don’t have the language or expertise to break down the cinematography but it’s moody, intimate, a good combination of timeless and futuristic. I’m sure the pitch had the word “classic” tossed around a few times. The basic elements of this commercial are not unique: a rich fit white man in an expensive car, in an expensive suit, in an expensive home, in expensive underwear, getting wet. Confidence. Self-awareness. A dash of humor. The “diverse” voyeurism is not new. Please see the diet Coke break and Levi’s laundromat commercials of old. (Fuck Brad Pitt). The song stirring us up isn’t even new. (I cannot find out who’s singing the cover, so if you know, please tell me).

Which is not to say thirst requires freshness. The ad mirrors the elements of desire: here are these things that have been around a real long time, but with the right person(s) in the right context at the right time, they are amazing.

Has David Beckham become my new favorite? No. But the ad made me wish Thirst Aid Kit was still in production. Sometimes I really miss it.

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I almost wrote a drabble, but I’m ovulating and have been listening to a lot of spicy audio this week so it was going to be nasty. That being said, I think I’m going to put the story as a scene in the next romance novel I’m working on. No, not the first one that’s not done. The *second* one that’s also not done.

Valentine’s Day is coming and I would like some roses and perfume and scented candles and Reese’s peanut butter cup hearts and some Starburst or Jolly Rancher jelly beans and and and and… I’d like to indulge my sweet girly gushy mushy side freely and without judgement.

I went to the library yesterday. My Nashville library card has been dust in the wind for a while now, but luckily I was still in the system so they gave me a new one. I borrowed 5 books + 4 via the Libby app. It was absolutely thrilling being back in a library, and I’d never been to this particular branch before. It might become the place I go to write.

Somewhat relatedly, I’ve assigned myself a reading challenge of 52 books this year. I’m using the StoryGraph app to keep track. If you’re on there, my username is tnwhiskeywoman. For the challenge, I want to read a book a week. I’m using my Habit tracker app to make sure I get in at least an hour a day. I’m really trying to step away from mindless social media scrolling and remember simpler joys in life.

Support your local library!

Murder, She Binged

I love Prince. I love romance novels. I love murder mysteries and detective procedurals.

Murder, She Wrote Memes

Murder, She Wrote. Perry Mason. Columbo. Poirot. Sherlock. Midsomer Murders. Bones. Murdoch Mysteries. Castle. Grantchester. Endeavour. Miss Fisher’s Murder Mysteries. Dalgliesh. Magnum, P.I. Vienna Blood. Mystery! The Glades. The Brokenwood Mysteries. Death in Paradise. My Life is Murder. Whitstable Pearl. Magpie Murders. Recipes for Love and Murder. Candice Renoir. The Mallorca Files. Get Millie Black. The Art of Crime. Signora Volpe. London Kills. Fosca Innocenti. Inspector Manara. The Madame Blanc Mysteries. Republic of Doyle.

I need a busybody constantly discovering a dead body in a small fictional town. A by-the-book cop paired with a chaotic civilian consultant. A private investigator who can barely keep it in his pants long enough to solve the crime. An asexual genius who raises a single eyebrow at village secrets. I need British innuendo. Italian ardor. New Zealand intrigue. American entitlement. Spanish deception. French finagling.

Murder, She Wrote is a gotdamn genius show! Jessica Fletcher (Angela Lansbury) is a retired English teacher whose nephew secretly submitted a manuscript she’d been chipping away at since her husband passed. She becomes an instant best-selling success, while solving real life murders in her spare time. Jessica is a mature, child-free woman living a rich life full of friends and travel. She doesn’t know how to drive but she rides her bike all over Cabot Cove. While she may not have any biological children, she has a whole treasure chest full of nieces and nephews she loves and saves from jail by solving the murders they always seem to be suspected of committing. Some of her closest friends are men who don’t hit on her, although there might’ve been a little wisp of something between her and Seth Hazlitt, the town doctor, but the show never went there. That doesn’t mean Jessica didn’t have options. There might be snow on the roof, but the fire in the hearth is burning bright! The old coots on that show loved her, but she was devoted to her late husband Frank. More than that, it’s important to see an older woman living a fulfilling, vibrant, active life without romance, without children, without a traditional job. Don’t just watch Murder, She Wrote and wonder if Jessica is actually a serial killer everyone overlooks just because she’s an old white lady. Watch the show and see that life can get a second wind, even in the midst of grief. You can make a difference after retirement, after widowhood, even if you’re not a mother. I just love Jessica Fletcher’s nosy ass.

Deadloch is one of the best crime procedurals I’ve seen in a long time. It’s a dark comedy series set in a small Tasmanian town where a lot of queer women have moved in recent years, upsetting many of the locals. Especially the cis straight white men. How surprising. Soon, some of those men start turning up dead. Dulcie Collins is a senior sergeant who used to be a police detective, but her wife Cath strong-armed them into moving to Deadloch to avoid the stress of life in Sydney. Dulcie is in a little over her head but also maybe secretly thrilled to be able to do more than help shoo a seal off a pedestrian bridge. However, Detective Eddie Redcliffe gets sent in to manage the investigation, outranking Dulcie, but Eddie is a hot, sloppy mess. Imagine if Columbo and Jake Peralta (Brooklyn Nine-Nine) had a brown baby girl. Like Dulcie, Eddie arrives in Deadloch a little against her will, but they try to work together, with very different styles, as the dead bodies and red herrings stack up.

This show takes every prestige thriller trope and gives it the finger. In one scene, the police are escorting a victim’s body to a more sophisticated crime lab. We see the procession in slow motion while key players are shown also in slow motion, no dialogue, arguing with each other. Haunting music sets the audience on edge. We’re looking at clues and darkness here, people. Then one of the observers suddenly shouts “oi! You’re going the wrong way!” The procession and music stop. The cops make the clumsiest k-turns, hitting curbs and fumbling over their steering wheels. After they correct their mistake, the moody music and slow motion arguing amongst suspects begins again. It’s perfect.

The first season is eight episodes and focuses on this one mystery- who is killing all the men in town and why- but like any good piece of art, there is so much more! Who gets to be an ally? How much penance should one pay to soothe a breach of trust in a relationship? How do you balance your career against the expectations of your relationship? What’s the point in running away if your troubles follow you? Weaponized therapy. Gender stuff. Colonialism. White guilt. Queer utopia– possible or nah? That dark humor soil is rich with goodies, and I cannot recommend Deadloch enough. I can’t wait for the second season.

Now listen. Ay Cee Ay Bee, okay. Don’t get it twisted. People have strong feelings about copaganda, and rightly so. I’ve been watching police detectives solve crimes for as long as I can remember. I’m talking about Dragnet and Kojak reruns with my jumbo crayons and applesauce. AND YET somehow my lived experiences and regular press headlines have managed to keep me from slapping a Blue Lives Matter sticker on my laptop.

The reasons I like mysteries and procedures are simple. I talked about this a little bit in the Bones chapter in my memoir. A terrible thing happens and is made right. The mystery is solved. I have no idea what my tomorrow will look like, but I know Thomas Magnum’s hoochie daddy shorts will walk a killer to jail. In a murder mystery, someone will fight for you, even after you’re gone. Somebody did you dirty and they won’t get away with it. The situation can get messy and hopeless, but someone creates order. Then they do it all over again in the next episode.

I don’t even try to solve the mystery any more. I just need to know that even in a fictional coastal town filled with people with funny accents, someone cares enough to make everything right. It doesn’t have to be pretty or neat or easy, but somehow, in the end, everything works out.

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• I also recently binged the first season of Wild Cards, which I really enjoyed. A very attractive con artist gets paired with a very attractive demoted detective. Shenanigans! Sexual tension! Trauma bonding! One episode features one of my favorite procedural premises: one of the mismatched pair is running errands at a bank when it gets held up by masked bandits. The other one wants to go in all reckless— THAT’S MY PARTNER IN THERE!— but figures out how to sneak in and we get to see how well they read each other in crisis situations. Just ladle it over my head. I love it. Wild Cards is cheesy and light. I’m into it.

• Here is a playlist I made called “Rocket Funk.” It’s a funk playlist for when you are high and horny. You don’t have to indulge in satan’s cilantro, or even sip the devil’s juice, to enjoy it, but I will warn you… it is dangerous. My friend M said, “This Rocket Funk playlist should be called: Nichole’s Chaos Agent Presents: Bad Decisions 🤦🏾‍♀️😩” I am not responsible for any wild texts you send, any babies you conceive, or any souls you snatch.

• Fan Service by Rosie Danan is a contemporary romance that comes out in March 2025, but I read an advanced copy via NetGalley. Alex used to run THE fansite for a werewolf detective show during her teen years. It’s been off the air for almost a decade but its star Devin is having a hard time moving on… especially once he starts turning into a wolf in real life. Since Alex compiled all the show lore and now works as a veterinary assistant, it makes perfect sense that she’d be able to help him figure out his new occasionally hairy existence. Beyond the mildly spicy romance at its heart, the novel also highlights things like the harm of fandoms and unhealthy trauma responses. Y’all know I love me a werewolf so I was very much into this book. I recommend this if you grew up with fanfic, watched all the Whedon stuff, and/or frequented fansites of your favorite tv shows.

• I have become addicted to a game called Bus Out. (I don’t play it with sound). Send help.

Gimme the Sweet Life

smelling so good, i could slap myself

via Fragrances of the World and more details here

Over the holidays, while running errands with Mama, we ended up at a Bath & Body Works store. A few years ago, I wrote about my desire to smell fruity and edible despite pressure to move toward more mature scents. I’m not mad at Bath & Body Works. Well, I’m a little salty because they recently discontinued my favorite scent, Pretty as a Peach. I pray it’s temporary. When Mama and I walked into the store, I hoped to find a replacement, but I was pleasantly surprised to find another old favorite on display– Pearberry.

Pearberry was My Scent through high school and college. My first high school boyfriend loved me in Victoria’s Secret’s Love Spell. It smelled like candied grape kool-aid. My college boyfriend loved me in Pear Glacé, which smelled more like a super sweet cantaloupe than any kind of pear. But Pearberry was for me. It smells like a syrupy champagne, and I always get a flash image of pouring a bottle of bubbly down my leg into a darling young man’s mouth when I smell it. It makes me feel like I’m a sweet shop… for grown-ups. I guess that was my thing then, smelling like sugared fruit. It might still be my thing.

Re-discovering Pearberry has made me think about the scents I associate with old loves and lovers. My first boyfriend smelled like lemon starch. He was really particular about his clothes and ironed everything. Whenever I write about a male love interest, I make him smell like lemon starch. My college boyfriend smelled like Egyptian Musk, which I still have a visceral reaction to, and that damn Issey Miyake. When he wore L’Eau d’Issey, I’d latch myself to his front, bury my nose into his neck, and just float into an incredibly happy place. Issey is the one cologne that made me turn my whole body around in the club to find out who was wearing that.

A recent lover drove me crazy with K by Dolce & Gabbana. I loved it so much that when I went to Scotland in May, I sprayed some of it onto a Crown Royal bag and took that with me on the trip so I could smell it (him) while I was gone. When I realized he would not be able to return even half of what I gave, I threw the bag away in a pique. I’ll be honest. I later regretted tossing it, especially when he stopped wearing it after he finished the bottle. He said he’d spray the cologne once. I believed him because you could only smell it up close, and it went straight to my cooch. Maybe it made me a little stupid, too.

I like it when men smell fresh, citrusy, aquatic, and/or mossy-woodsy with a tainch of spice, but I like to smell like a decadent dessert– Eat me first. Life is too short to pass me by– or a luscious cocktail– let me be the delightful thing that sneaks up on you.

At Bath & Body Works (I promise this is not an ad of any kind), I picked up a two-scent layering combo: Pearberry body wash and Buttercups & Berry Bellini body cream. I took a really good shower and smelled so good, I wanted to bite myself. I smelled like a boozy strawberry shortcake, and I loved it. It’s become my go-to pick-me-up when I get depressed about not working or am feeling like a burden.

Even though I have some favorite scents, I’m not sure I have a signature. I have a tropically-sweet body oil I use mostly on date nights that I know will be… fruitful. I recently discovered a chocolate-scented oil that makes me want a good make-out session. It’s supposedly really popular amongst “fragrance influencers” because it’s cheap, strong, and easy to get. Imagine freshly baked chocolate chip cookies cooling in the kitchen while you’re on the couch, grinding against a thigh and kissing someone soft and deep. I used to order a lemon pound cake body butter that became too expensive for me. I would wear it during the summer for date nights and have myself purring.

Last summer, I went to a fragrance debut event and bought a perfume called Yara Candy by Lattafa. Rub some strawberry sour straws all over you. Take a bath in Skittles. Huff some Big League Chew. That’s the scent. I also really like this luscious birthday cake body oil, but I lowkey wish they’d change the name. I’m down to my last bottle and am using it sparingly. I’m not typically a vanilla girl but the caramel really pops on my skin, and I always get compliments about it. I found a scent I really like during the summer from this gourmand brand. It smells like your island lover licking rum punch off your belly.

The gourmand girlies get a bad rep because smelling sweet is considered childish, but not all of us want to smell like powder and furs from the back of the closet. There’s nothing wrong if you want to smell like pressed flowers found in a used Agatha Christie book or spilled red wine in the back seat of a new limousine. I totally understand the appeal. You want to be admired and respected. You want to smell like wealth and prestige. I want someone to think about licking their fingers when they smell me. And that’s okay!

There’s been plenty written up about “the lipstick effect,” when people focus on small luxuries during times of economic strife. Things have been… what they are for a while, and I think people have gravitated towards ideas like “soft life” and “self care” lifestyles because there has to be some kind of breathing room between all the chaos and confusion, or we will lose our minds. People need pleasure. It drains you when every single penny, every single thought, goes to survival. Why are we here if we’re not supposed to enjoy any of it? I think it’s weird when people see something like an unhoused person eating a doughnut and act like that $2 pastry is why they can’t find lodging. I’d never begrudge someone, in a low moment of their life, indulging themselves with some tasty goodness. We cannot live by bread alone.

Let me be a sweet treat, to myself, if only for a moment.

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• I recently watched Missing You on Netflix. It’s an adaptation of a Harlan Coben novel. I cannot recommend it, but you do you. Police detective Kat Donovan matches with a guy on a dating app who appears to be her former fiancé Josh Buchanan who disappeared 12 years ago. She’s in the middle of another case which seems to be connected to Josh’s reappearance, but how? While untangling those knots, she discovers the truth about her father’s sudden yet mysterious death. I’m not sure how Kat became a detective because she is dumb as a doorknob on the ceiling. No kind of instincts or awareness. And the ending makes it painfully obvious that the original novel was written by a white person with a predominantly white cast of characters. You cannot sprinkle cocoa on something and make it “diverse.” You have to add in cultural nuances, as well. I can’t explain my issues with this limited series without seriously spoiling it. I wish I had recorded the high-pitched disbelief my sister and I exclaimed at the ending.

• For the “new year, new me” vibes, I’ve been using a habit tracker app simply called Habit Tracker (iOS link). I have found it very helpful so far and am hitting a lot of my goals. I’m tracking stuff like journaling and reading daily for an hour. You can track 6-7 items for free. TMI: I downloaded it because I wanted to keep track of how often I have sex this year. I don’t know why. Since I’ve moved back home, only the cat has seen my toot-toot during some naked yoga.

• This is the video I’ve done a couple of times which shined my cooter into my cat’s observant gaze. It’s a series of yoga poses that help with digestion, bloating, IBD/IBS, and ulcerative colitis. Baby, when I tell you I am immediately in the bathroom after following this video, I mean it! A top comment reads: “Tried this and it left me sounding like the beginning of Shanghai by Nicki Minaj. 100% recommend!”

• I’m off social media for the month of January. I deleted the dating apps in November and deleted Threads the other day. I’m behind on all the celeb gossip and any trends, but I’m also less irritated, sleeping better, and reading more.

• Here’s a list of verified GoFundMe campaigns and a Displaced Black Families GoFundMe Directory to help those affected by the California wildfires.

• Still looking for creative work (writing, podcasting) but I’m probably about to return to soul-sucking office life in the meantime. Maybe I can find something full time with health insurance. Maybe I will win the lottery.