a love letter to the off-putting and tediously cringe

on what brought me to become a "writer" and convincing you to suffer with me

i am currently in my writer's uniform: soaked period-underwear, a sherpa hoodie that would enrage peta, mismatched white socks, skin covered in snail mucin from korea that i think might be a fake, and a whole lot of gall.

in my mind, my choice to place pen to paper (or should i say finger-to-keyboard) will result in a catastrophic earthquake in the world of “real writers”. i can almost taste the imaginary disdain from seasoned essayists, poets, and novelists– the people who went to school for an english degree and endured the ultimate prerequisite to graduation: a professor staring at them with fuck-eyes. they've done their time and, despite the many protests from my “real writer” peers telling me to get out of my head, i possess the magic ability to make justifications as to why “real writers” are anyone– anything besides me. if i can conjure up enough reasoning not to start this substack, i donʻt have to worry about failing, succeeding, or doing anything of substance in front of an audience.

fuck it. here are my credentials:

i loved allen ginsberg when i was 13. i appreciated the disjointed feeling of his words, existing in the place between sleep and wake. i was also impressed by his ability to draw out the political failings of american life through stark commentary, but i mostly liked him because he was gay and james franco played him in a biopic (this is 2010 b.c. – “before cancellation” and the discovery that james franco would have really liked me at 17). 

i also endured the franco-genre of professors, albeit in art school. they told me i “rely too heavily on words to tell a story.” if words were my ultimate reason for bs in my art 102 class then i deserve to avenge myself, donʻt i? i deserve to lean in. i surely deserve to write. right?

i am a salaried overthinker. my favorite thing to think about right now is how to coordinate my leds to improve the mood lighting in my room. i have three settings saved: “sensual”, “vagina”, and “soho: new york”. my least favorite thing to think about right now is desire and sex. the last girl i had sex with only made me cum once because every time i took my shirt off i cried. i have constant panic attacks about my stomach hurting– basically, i am experiencing everything you’d dream of reading.

i also have autism. since my diagnosis, i've tried to pinpoint my special interests in hopes of understanding myself better, but my executive function issues often leave me in a state of rumination rather than taking action. for example, i used to paint, but after burning out i spent more time thinking about what i should paint. i made tiktoks until i reached a breaking point. now, i resort to a daily exclamation of “that would make a funny video” and i move forward with the day. i like baking but i already went through my baking-carrot-cakes phase in the 7th grade. i am fascinated by the piercing process but lack the balls to take a needle to my own face, let alone someone else’s. and so on and so forth.

i wish i had the type of autism that makes me construct fursuits from nothing but a piece of lint like my friend leo, but i often resort to thinking myself into a state of unrest– so many thoughts and so little places to put them. 

i need something to change, so even after a sordid online history of getting doxxed, deepfaked, and memed, i figured if i’m going to think this much i might as well write it all down on the internet. to do so, i broke up with my third cruel and unusual ex, begged my friend @kel.lauren for a logo (that they did for free– thanks kel) and now i'm here: period underwear. bedroom. mismatched socks. slugged skin. whatever-the-fuck-else i said in the beginning.

among the long list of special interests i've already stated, the one i find the most joy in are “words that bite”. i like to leave a mark.

this space will be the space to leave that mark— a place to tire myself out without causing irreparable damage to my relationships (albeit i canʻt say the same for my digital footprint). i will do surgery on things that make me both upset and excited. i will gobble up media and spit it back at you with something semi-new. i will cry and explore the themes of life i find a bit unsettling or wildly ecstatic. iʻll probably talk about lesbianism, being indigenous, being autistic, and very early memories. i might even throw in an audio here or there.

i am finally ripping the bandaid off and doing the bravest thing ever: doing something rather than thinking very hard about it. 

although iʻm not certain i belong in the room with the smart and funny writing-people, i think– if i act like i belong– one day i will find myself akin to the stereotypical person-with-a-manuscript: sipping a cappuccino in that indy cafe down the street with a pen in their mouth.

my name is anuhea. welcome to social deficit.