You’d think at some point I’d learn this thing about myself.

It’s not that difficult for me to get into something once I set my mind to it. The problem is sustaining the energy and getting it started in the first place.

Right now, I’m knee deep in crocheted hamburgers and attempts to draft out a webcomic chapter.

The point is, I want to do everything. Everything.

…I have no sense of time. Everything blurs together, moves too fast. Moves too slow, if it’s a work luncheon or an event I don’t want to be at. Then time freezes exactly when it shouldn’t, when I’m thinking about how much I’ve disappointed my family by not going to that graduation, that Thanksgiving, that get-together.

…even the fantastic couldn’t quite cut it for me, because too often, the characters were concerned with some boy or how they didn’t feel beautiful or worthy enough to be a protagonist. Don’t get me wrong—I certainly felt the pressures of beauty and worthiness as a young woman. But I wanted to escape. I didn’t want the girl who could walk on water to think, there’s no way that guy who hasn’t said more than five words to me would think I was cool for walking on water. I was screaming at her.

…there are also plenty of trainwreck pages covered in the utter gore of someone’s disorganized thoughts that I would love to talk about at length. You know, like a kind of morbid impulse to point out a car crash to someone else.

…Every poem was a way to both distract and confront the horror, because as with many things, I recede during times of fear to what's comfortable to me: the complexity of the queer experience, and its historical existence in the context of horror media.