Christmas Day

Love, pretty things, soulfood

I’ve found God in this forest over and over again.

I’ve sat just as I am now on the side of a mountain and sobbed. I’ve looked at the sun beaming between the tree tops, painting lace all over the pine needles and prayed for strength. I’ve laid on pine cones and mourned the loss of the things that I could not control. And today, I walked over rock and ice in tremendous gratitude for the breath of life, the elegance of divine timing, the ability to change.

Grounded and flying.
Alive, every cell of all of us.

My sweet Lord.


The Bumble Chronicles

silly goose

I have been single for exactly two weeks. Two days ago I decided to start Bumbling. What in the hell is bumble you ask? The (theoretically) less creepy version of Tinder. I’m unsure of the set up for same sex couples, but for the hetero-crowd the women call all of the shots. They pick who they like, the woman chooses to ­­­­message that person, she asks them out on a date. Conceptually it’s the better situation for a woman I think, but I’m feeling like I’m going to bail.


So men pop up on the screen and there are a few pictures of them and they say very little in their profile section. Just one thing, or even just a series of emojis. It’s clear that this whole online hookup thing feels like swimming in stagnant water. You might catch a leach, get dysentery but hey at least you made a concerted effort to get wet. Everyone is brief, just trying to preserve their anonymity, myself included.


There’s the full gamete. Doctors, lawyers, business executives. Men named SoliderofGod who have gold fronts and look like a skinnier version of Snoop Dogg. I didn’t make that one up. It’s not the most horrendous activity that I’ve ever been part of but it’s pretty close.


I had to Google which way to swipe. Had to ask friends for advice. Had to read a number of profiles aloud because they were better than stand up. My friend consuls, it’s the fucking worst. But what are you going to do? These days it’s pretty much the only way to meet guys. Maybe you should try Tinder, at least you could get fucked quickly.


For fucks sake (literally) this is what life has come to. Am I really that washed up? That undesirable? Is it entirely unfeasible to move out of state? Where in the world are all of the single men? I’m not even picky at this point. Just needs not be a serial killer, holds mediocre conversation and isn’t physically repulsive. IS THAT SO MUCH TO ASK? Apparently.

Don’t Worry I Did Eventually Call My Therapist

soulfood, therapy

I should go see my therapist but I don’t want to. I feel a little like a five year old digging her heals into the sandbox, admittedly. I just don’t want to have to show up a month later and unpack the shit show that I have made of my life. Is it shame? Is it embarrassment? Probably both.

To have to be witnessed when you don’t even know what’s going on yourself sounds miserable. The alternative however, seems to be to lose your mind all alone. Maybe it’s best that way. Accountability at this juncture isn’t good for anyone especially me.


Grief, it does this thing that reminds me of that one really hard level of Donkey Kong in the second railroad world. It starts off with Donkey and Diddy in a tiny rail car, you have to go through this ominous abandoned coal mine with a broken track. You have to execute these breath-taking jumps from one broken bit to the next. If you don’t hit A and B in the right sequence, while traveling at the exact right velocity or else you die. Just fall to the bottom of the screen. Snap, down one more life. And then almost cruelly it takes you back to the start to do it all over again.


It’s like that. But sometimes it feels like your big brother holding your head under water at the public pool everyone else frolicking about while you try to both not make a scene and not inhale two lungs full of chlorinated water. Other times it feels like an underwater tea party with a couple of friends at the bottom of the pool. Air bubbles escaping through smiling teeth, count to ten, bob back to the surface. I’ve been drinking a lot of tea these days.


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.

Scratch That

Love, soulfood

You know what, never mind. I just got so caught up in my little girl emotions, that I forgot who I was.


Girl you are a mastermind of the interpersonal relationship. You are an artist, a poet. You are a student of psychology and resilience. You are living an authentic life. You are thirty years old. You have made all of the strange turns in life. You have learned through blood sweat and tears how to negotiate, respect and care for a partner. You are selfless and you are fierce.


Yeah but still every time that I see you I wonder if it will be the last.

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


Love, soulfood

The Things You Taught Me:

To love bar soap.
How to accept rejection gracefully.
What it is like to be betrayed by your own boundaries.

How to argue my point.
To laugh early and often
That sometimes there is no explaining myself, stop trying.

To witness my own mastery in fabricating the depth of love that I wanted so badly.
The joy of having a man to travel with.
The diagnosis for the pain in my belly,
feels like a swallowed scream,
often doubling me over in pain.
Her name is grief.

The art of cooking with butter.
What it feels like to dance with selflessness.
To love jazz music.

How it feels to be the desperate one.

When to let go of other people’s judgment.
To recognize that regret often coats the soles of my feet,
forcing cantilever, deliberate steps.
How to be profoundly diplomatic in all points of contention.

The sting of indifference.
How to give my self emotional sutures,
forcing the sides of my flesh back together,
healing over the void that I called destiny, mutual, boundless, love.

How to wear a scar.

Slow Jam

Love, soulfood

I miss you when I’m cutting an onion. Half way through when I would normally yell uncle and bring you the knife, I just stand there and lean into the fire welling in my lash line, spilling down my face.

I miss you when it’s too early to be dancing at a bar, but I’m old and can’t wait until midnight to get the party started any more. So, instead of pounding the rest of my drink and reaching out for your hand. I slowly sip a gin and tonic, reciting affirmations like dance like no one is looking, and dance like everyone is looking, and you only live once, and fuck it this is your joy, and waltz out to a barren floor and do my thing.

A stadium of narrowed eyes glance up from their phones and scanning my body. I see them, every one of them. Ninety percent disgust me. Exactly one of them is drunk enough to remove himself from his stool to ask me to dance. He’s a short hispanic man who thinks that every song is the rumba. You know, these hips grew up on hip hop and soul jams, so I’m forced to dig deep into my muscle memory. Where I pull out those months of Zumba taught by a peppy Latino named Frank and that time that we took bachata lessons and the instructor said in no uncertain way that it was a shame that such a smooth man like yourself was partnered with me. But I make do, because I feel the most like me when I’m in motion, and at least someone was willing to be my surrogate partner.

I miss you when last call comes and I get ushered out of the club in a flood of people. People asking for my number. Small hispanic man asking when I would be there again. I don’t know, I grimace and tipsily wedge my way through the crowd. Once I hit the night air I realize it’s almost two. How did that happen. And more impressively how am I not dead, that was multiple solid hours of dancing for a girl who barely does any cardio. There I am, stripped of inquiring eyes. Alone. In the dark, dead streets of a city that I’m beginning to despise.

If I’m lucky enough to make it home with out being accosted, I walk in my door lie down on my couch and slowly breath. Attempting to regulate the excruciating pain of being one person in a 1,000 square feet, that used to feel far too small. Now it feels like the Taj Mahal. The mausoleum of my shattered expectations, buried in a tomb that implanted in my left atrium. When I’m awake at night because it’s still hard to fall asleep without anyone to curl in next to I hear it. Well I hear the blood pounding around it, making a new path, doing everything that it can to keep me alive.

Alive some hours more than others. It’s just those little things that happen all day long that remind me that alone is not a home. It’s a temporary residence. I like to keep the bed made and not make too much noise when I come in. Out of respect for it’s impermanence. So that when the time comes for me to move out of the slow dread of solo that the transition will be easy. Don’t worry I’m being careful about packing back up this baggage, going to try and take as little of it as possible on the next flight.