about that rape accusation

social awareness, therapy, your body

Does it feel like women have gotten out of hand lately?
Like the Aziz Ansari mystery woman and the Harvey Weinstein’s accusers are on a power trip? Motivated by money? Coming out so late after the fact? On the girl-who-cried-rape-band-wagon?
And last year they all knitted pink cat hats and (the privileged white ladies at least) marched (or was that a saunter) across America’s main-streets in protest of the misogynistic buffoon that too many of our sisters elected into horrifying amounts of power, too bad it was in January could have at least appreciated so many boobies on the National Mall. Then one day last fall a bunch of basic ass women thought that someone was a) reading their facebook updates who cared or, b) thought for a second that they would dare to tell their stories of harassment and sexual assault right there in the open either with adjectives or with simply #metoo, as a way of making a point.

The Larry Nassar thing tho we can all agree was fucked, right?

I mean, I did hear from a number of dudes that they couldn’t believe the sheer numbers of women they knew that spoke up during the one week where #metoo was relevant.
You know what I couldn’t believe? That anyone was fucking surprised. I’m not.


You know why women are out of hand all of the sudden?


We would also, appreciate it if our children were not raped. Groping, verbal assaults, attempted rapes, cat calls, sexual harassment, discriminatory workplaces, power manipulations, non-consensual but not quite violent sex, incest, needing to walk with our keys jutting through our fists just in case. ALL OF THAT, let’s go ahead and throw that in the mix too. WE ARE FUCKING SICK OF BEING SEXUALLY VIOLATED.

It’s never been okay with us. It’s just taken a very long time for us to find a platform to speak from. Taken a long time for the ground swell of permission to build, that corrodes the shame, un-cages the voice and let’s us scream. All of us together, I hold that even for the ones that can’t or won’t yet. We’re done.

This is the critical mass, look around. Up next: this shift…. It’s no longer safe for men to be sexually violent towards women, we have your name and we’ll ruin your life. Watch.



Let’s bumble.

pretty things, your body

After exposure to Adonis. I’m no longer interested on the scum that is floating about Bumble. I don’t care about your fancy law degree. Or the fact that you’re kissing your mother in your profile picture. Do you have a 12-pack and know how to touch a women like she’s a symphony? Didn’t think so.


Swipe left.


Love, pretty things, silly goose, soulfood, your body

These bodies that we’re in. What a funny device. All of this ambulating. The arch of your back on the inhale. The way that you kiss the top of my head, and then the center of my forehead. The back of your thighs.


Sometimes I get the urge to wrap your body around mine and take off down a rolling grassy hill. Sort of sure that we’ll gash our knees open but so delighted by the joy of momentum and gravity and I could care less. Grass stained and out of breath, let’s do it again.

The Choke Hold Of Possibility

Love, soulfood, your body

What is this thing that we do. We will let someone between our thighs, let them caress the parts of us that we would never expose in public. We will whisper the song of lust, desire and fantasy into their mouth gaped open in a resounding yes. But we won’t tell that same person how we feel about them. We wont say I like you and I don’t know what that means. We won’t say every night I lie in my bed reimagining the sensation of our bodies discovering and reciprocating. I won’t say that for a moment yesterday I slipped into a day dream about us having a cook out in our backyard, our kids playing tag weaving their lanky bodies between adults. One of us shouts hey be careful and then we lock eyes because truly this is what we’ve always wanted.


I can’t say any of that. I’m careful to not always be the one who instigates the text. I hold my breath every time that you say you’re on your way over. Still surprised when the door bell finally rings. Sometimes the butterflies will bubble up into my esophagus leaving me between dry heaves and fainting in anticipation, of your next word, the next time you kiss me on the top of my head, the next time.

I have no idea if there will actually be a next time.

Girl get your life together. This man knows nothing about you. Has no obligation to you. There’s a good chance that you terrify him. Hell there’s a good chance that you terrify you too.

So here we are. I inhale you like the air right after a rainstorm when you’re laying next to me. And I want to throw up every time that you text me. I hold my breath for thirty seconds and then I look. Exhale. I’m irrational and you never miss a beat.

Profile Update

domestication, Love, social awareness, soulfood, therapy, your body

I am not Beyoncé. Hard to believe I know. I am also not June Cleaver, Jessica Alba or Princess Di. I probably have more in common with Julia Louis-Dryfus and Elizabeth Warren. Today I updated my Bumble profile to the perfect mix of setting reasonable expectation while still sounding fun, sexy, uninhibited, and classy . Choosing pictures where I look subtly breath taking, but down to earth. Literal earth, at least two nature pics and one selfie in heals. Shots with the perfect amount of I like to party sex appeal but not party so hard that I’d suck your dick on the first date sex appeal.




So here’s my honest to God’s truth Bumble profile:

Hi I’m Reagon. Pronounced Ray-gun. Yes, like the president. In fact that’s my shtick (follow me on FB, Insta, Twitter, & Snap @reagonforpres). [Hey, if I can’t get a cup of coffee or a cocktail at least I can get a few more followers… add this to future branding campaign advice.]


Any way, I clean up real nice, in fact I was recently told that I look like a living doll. But I also, regularly look like a homeless person. Also, like clock work every year I do no shave November, and December, and sometimes January, February and half of March. By spring break every year I can Rapunzel style French braid my pubes down to my ankles and sculpt my leg hair into a punk rock Mohawk. Hot right?

Honestly, because we just met I’ll painstakingly shave, pluck and pull 80% of the hairs out of my body. They were all blonde to being with so this process annoys me highly but so does the prospect of dying alone. So here we are.

To appease all of your inquisitive minds, the drapes match the rug. And I do have rug. Fuck ladies, let’s stop paying Tammy at the local Wax Palace $100.00 every ten days to rip the hairs out of our vag okay? Like, can we add that to our next national ballot? It’s clear ya’ll aren’t actually down for the revolution, but can we at least let my lady hair sail free?

Sorry about that tangent. It’s nice to meet you.


Today I woke up on a twin sized air mattress next to the beaming eyes of the most exquisite creature that I have ever seen. Between me lovingly gazing into my daughter’s eyes in a sweet sleepy stupor I tried to identify what that old familiar sound was. Oh my God what is that??? It sounds like the dog is barfing in the tent. Oh my God THE DOG IS BARFING IN THE BED, IN THE TENT. I somehow contorted my body even further than should be humanly possible and clung to my blankets for another ten minutes. Partially because I was freezing fucking cold and partially because I wasn’t exactly bouncing out of bed over joyed to clean up dog vomit. But I did, eventually, and as promised it was fucking disgusting. This thought crossed my mind numerous times, I’m so glad that no one has to see me dressed in seven layers of clothes, thick wool socks shoved in flip flops cleaning up barf. And trust the flip flop socks didn’t give off a sexy geisha vibe.


The nice thing about waking up to a steamy pile of vomit is that your day really only goes up from there.


I made a fire. I ate a hotdog for breakfast. I took down the campsite. I wrestled the tent like an alligator into it’s impossibly tiny bag. At one point resorting to laying my entire body on the stabbing rocks, again seeking solace in thank God that no one can see me and laughing at the heavens, “Ohhhh mother fucker, this damn tent is a real metaphor for my life. Well look at this God I DID IT! Un-barfed, neatly folded and then artfully crammed and shoved into it’s pouch. Zipper amazingly closed and all done by me, myself and me. Alone. Fuck. I surrender.”

I’m not trying to do that shit ever again by myself. But I will because of the RBG in me.

After the seventy-second load to the car I stripped out of three layers of clothes. Taking amusement in the breadth of my own undressing capacity. Hot dudes that I bring home from the bar get the Dita Von Teese dimly lit peak-a-boo slow undress session. But, in the wild there I am teeter-tottering on top of my six year old tennis shoes with the grace of a hippo with flamingo legs. A real homage to Eric Carle, without the tear jerking sentiment.


And then I drove our three barely pulsing corpses back home. The two things that I miss most about having a man:

1) being the passenger

2) indulging in the helpless girl act long enough to not be the one who has to catch and release the parade of spiders that are fleeing into my home at the moment


Here’s the thing: I CAN DO ANYTHING. Literally, anything. I look back to my younger years with bewildered awe. I can’t believe that I did all of that. I look into my future with bewildered aweee, girl you still got it. The thing that changes once you know that you’re powerful beyond measure. That you are divinity incarnate. That your talents can’t be contained. Is that you don’t have to prove yourself to anyone anymore.


Yes, I want to be seen. I want to be heard. I want to be held. I don’t really care if you know that I’m a total sex kitten in my embodied sexual prime. I don’t care if you know that I spent thirty minutes today unclogging my bathroom drain. While interjecting like a school girl, ewwweee this is soooo sick. I don’t care if you know that I smoke a bowl in my hammock or that I wrote a highly intimidating business letter all today. Really I just don’t care anymore.


I’m just going to keep showing up as me. Vast, unapologetic, liberated, loving, loud, soft, determined, tired, me. Maybe I’ll charm you. Maybe I’ll scare you (I’m good for that). But if you’re the type that looks at fire and sees beauty then maybe we should get coffee. And maybe you could pick me up. I’m serious about never wanting to drive again.



Splendid, complicated, lovely, exhilarating, real as fuck Reagon

shot dead

Love, pretty things, soulfood, your body

In the eighth grade, I wrote this boy a note.
It said, “I don’t like you Brandon. Leave me alone.”

That came back to me today as I loaded the washer. I imagine now, that little boy just learning to stand in this world. Just letting the taste of love land on the tip of his tongue. Like all of us young and old no fucking idea about how to handle ourselves or to measure reciprocity when it comes to matters of the heart. Sitting there at the lunch table, breathing dreams of my adulation into the well pressed seams of my notebook paper. And there in jelly roll pen, my cold hard rejection.


That’s just who I am.

I learned that men turn their head and scan your body when you cross the street at the age of nine. I learned how to shut down a cat call with one side glance by the time I was ten. I learned that if you let them, boys and men will be so confused by the delicacy of your physiology, the charm of pheromones that silently radiate beyond your awareness and the safety of your smile, that they will think that they love you. And you them.

I let that boy walk me home from school. I let him drink my kool-aid. Hell I even let him think that I was his friend.

But when I don’t. I don’t. If that hurts well I’m sorry. I’m not the home for your bleeding heart. And I’m not the girl of your dreams.

Unless I am.

When I’m real sure, you’ll want to hold on. Maybe I’ll write it to you in a note. Or maybe I’ll spill my soul onto your lips. Drip respect over your collar bone. Curl amazement into your pelvis. Steadily showing you what it looks like when I love you back. Trust, you’ll know.

Spotify’s Got Me All F**ked Up

silly goose, your body

As many of you know this weekend was a very special weekend. I realized that I had a free Spotify premium membership just waiting for me out in the ethers. I promptly, filled out the necessary information and like the resurrection of Christ himself, the sweet nectar that is my old Spotify playlist has RISEN! Can I get an amen!

[If this is all some foreign tech babble that you don’t understand. You’re life has no meaning. I mean okay, so it probably has meaning but you are barely living. At the very least you need to get the free version of Spotify, which is the Limewire of this decade. I have been trudging though the perils of the free version for the past six months. Six long terrible months. No, I’m not being dramatic.]

Here’s what I wasn’t ready for. The onslaught of songs that have now become so terribly sad because my life circumstances have dramatically changed.

Music that you continually listen to through life changes and expanses of time evolve with you. That smooth love song that you and what’s his face used to grove to in the living room, well now that’s the song that you shake your fine single behind to when making dinner. All is well.

But those songs that you haven’t touched in you don’t know how long, those will jump right out of your ear buds and sucker punch you in the gut. Damn. I would like to send a personal f-you to Damien Rice, Citizen Cope, Bill Withers, Fiest, Paolo Nutini, and Joss Stone herself. You can shove Super Duper Love up your arse.

This isn’t news to any of you who have weathered the storm of heart break or what you thought was heart break in your teenage years, Coldplay knew just how to say it didn’t they. Our brains are hard-wired to connect music with our longterm memory, speaking of being able to recite every Will Smith album ever from heart… adding that to my resume right meow.

The hippocampus (that little bitch) is likely the culprit here. It mediates both memory formation and emotions. So here we are sobbing between Amos Lee songs. I’ve got bad news for those recovering from crushed dreams and the promise of forever love even patients with very advanced Alzheimer’s can go into deep emotional recall at the drop of one Ludacris song. Okay, so What’s Your Fantasy probably isn’t bumpin’ on the dementia wing, but ya know.



Hey Fatty Read This!

social awareness, soulfood, Uncategorized, your body

Yes I’m talking to you:

It has been brought to my attention over and over again since ummmm about puberty that this needs to be said. It needs to be screamed from a mountain top. So here goes.

If you’ve recently gained 10+ pounds read here: 

IT IS 1-0 MOTHER FUCKING POUNDS. I CAN GAIN TEN POUNDS IN ONE WEEK. STOP!!! Not to say that I haven’t been there 18000 times because I have. For some reason when you’re losing weight for any reason (adderall, exercise, stress, poverty) life is good. It’s like the one thing that is there in the clutch, at least I can tie my shoes in these jeans. Something good is at work.

But, when the tables are turned and everyday you notice more and more dimples on your ass and your fat clothes get rotated to the front of the closet (and suddenly nothing can be dried because “Damn it babe, you keep shrinking my clothes….”), there’s a cloud over your head. All of the justifications (I’m bloated, I’m stressed, the scale FUCKING lies!!) are perfectly fine. If they help, good, use them, blindly follow them. You do not need to spend one more second of your life feeling like crap because of __ amount of pounds you gained. It’s not helping.

In a prefect world  we would be able to look in the mirror and say I’m a human and this is what humans look like. But we’ve been conditioned to look in the mirror with various shades of horror. Put down Shape magazine right now.

Here’s a little story: No one ever said a dog was ugly or unworthy because she has a sweet tooth *cough Meena*. But I do look at her round behind waddle in front of me every day when I walk her and I take stock of how up or down the scale she is. Dang, Meena’s getting really fat, I should probably stop using her as the garbage disposal. Damn, Meena’s lost a lot of weight, probably because our house is COVERED IN URINE and she’s too disgusted to eat off the floor. (Wanna come visit???). But that’s it. I don’t think of her any more or any less, though I am still quite angry about the spite shit.

That beautiful parable was to say that yes you are going to notice when you gain weight and so is everyone else (see below). And that’s okay. If any one of those people (your/myself included) think less of you as a person because of it then they are an asshole. Remind yourself of that often. Hey *insert your name here* stop being such a fucking asshole to me. 

If you’ve recently lost any amount of weight, yes 3 pounds counts, read here: 

Let me tell you about a time that I lost a solid 25 pounds last year. I weighed 138 pounds at one point, which is basically Reagon as Kate Moss. A few random women commented. J said nothing. Literally nothing. Until Christmas after I’d gained at least 10 of it back. He says, “Have you lost weight or something?” Pretty sure a fuck you for never noticing, I’m getting fat again, pass the kringle blurted out of my mouth. And I meant it. I bared my belly in public and you didn’t even notice. And now I’m on the one way train to fatty-dom. WONDERFUL!

The meaning of that story boys and girls, is that life is unfair. No one ever threw anyone a parade for losing 10 pounds. BECAUSE IT’S JUST 10 POUNDS. Legit one of my ass cheeks weighs at least 25 pounds. And not in some sexy Kim Kardashian way… well actually, yes in a sexy Kim Kardashian way because fuck it. Celebrate what yo mama gave you girl. You may have noticed that we are getting old as fuck. I have an angry furrow wrinkle between my eyebrows, it’s only going to get worse. And I’m probably going to need to eat my emotions one of these days, on the first of the month to be exact…. fuck a monthly pay cycle p.s., and I will gain weight again. This is life. You’re rich and you’re poor. Your fat and your skinny. You’re in love and your lost. You’re navigating life. It’s not easy.

If you’re a human being read here: 


Don’t make life harder by launching a one man war on yourself. Please. There’s a good chance that I personally (hi Mom and my two best friends that read this religiously) love every single ounce of you. And if you don’t know me personally (shout out to that one dude in Amman that reads my blog) there is someone in your life that adores every single thing about you (even if it’s your mom). They/I always  will, regardless of the size pants you fit into this week. Meet us there won’t you.

Redemption Weighed Eight Pounds Nine Ounces

soulfood, your body

You would be turning eight years old today- yesterday- I’ve lost count.
Honestly, I never counted.
Twenty-eight days. Calendar tracking, it never felt important.

Do you know how improbable that it is to make a baby?
I had no idea.
—— I chose not to know.
To know you.
Over and over again.

We spent eight weeks together. And I never even began to know you.

That is until you were gone,
And all of life crumbled in my hands.

I ushered you out of me and a world that never said got to say good morning
One excruciating cramp and contraction after another
I bled that whole fall,
in silence.

It’s inexplicable.

Like clock work, just as you were to be born
I patched the gape in my soul and body with your sister,
or are you two in the same?

It took nine months to rebuild all that I lost with you.

Stripped of a defense
raw and gaping
here I am.

The Fear of Change

create, science says, social awareness, your body

Good golly. I really can’t say this in a brief way.

In a nutshell: I’ve been studying Existential Therapy and Carl Jung before that and have essentially called to question every single aspect of my reality in the past three weeks. (Which is not separate from LIFE that keeps happening to me…. that I keep attracting/creating). Part of this process has been creating art work that explains the concepts. What a beautiful challenge.

So yesterday I realized that social media is a giant crutch/addiction/detriment to my self-actualization so I’m on a indefinite Facebook hiatus. And then I started looking at the WHYs behind my use of Instagram because I don’t want to give that up aka I’m extremely resistant to that change and wasn’t sure if it was even something that I wanted to potentially ever put on the cutting block.

Long story short my response was to create a new Instagram called @reallifereg that only has pictures from my trash bins. This was a huge wakeup call about my own lingering body image issues and self depreciating beliefs about my own appearance plus called into question the WHY was that picture not good enough. I explain in each caption why I chose to delete the photo.

I created a one image representation of all of this :


Here’s the more polished explanation with references if you wanna geek out:

My piece is the most succinct visual representation of a rather convoluted but powerful experience that I had considering James Bugental’s contribution to existential psychotherapy. In Corey’s explanation of Bugental’s approach to resistance on page 144 he shares that, “Forms of resistance include intellectualizing, being argumentative, always seeking to please, and any other life-limiting pattern.” I have been processing that one line for over a week because of my constant employment of those tactics that I had never viewed as self-limiting before.

After researching Bugental’s explanation of resistance which included reading a powerful article entitled, A Fate Worst Than Death: The Fear of Changing (1984) I sat with why I am resistant to a career change. That boiled down to perfectionism and always seeking to please. From there I explored all of the myriad of ways that I am a perfectionist and what that means to my self actualization as well as my short and long term goals. This lead to re-evaluating my use of social media, specifically the visual perfection that I have curated on Instagram that serves my public persona but does absolutely nothing for my internal self.

After deleting my Facebook account I created a new public Instagram feed that has only has pictures that I had previously deleted found in my trash bin on my phone. In each caption I wrote the reason why I chose not to post the photo and delete it. In this very revealing exercise I realized that so many of my deleted pictures were “selfies” and how intertwined those deletions were with my ego, being self-conscious, old patterns of body dysmorphia and a general malaise with the changes in my face as the result of aging. The large piece that I printed encapsulates that entire process of self-exploration in one image. Referencing a time in my life where I was extensively studying anatomy and had a very different relationship to all bodies, mine included. My piece is an ode to a real, non-resistant, surrendered acceptance of my self entirely and the necessity to be honest about that process.