Sunday afternoon. Late Winter. Outside, the snow swirls lazily past the windows. Then — the gentle pop of the cork.

I want my bright colors, damnit, but it is too fricking cold to toss my sweaters in the storage bin for the season. Enter the brightly colored (but still cozy) warm layers.

The snow has finally melted, but the wind is still strong and cold. The ground is wet from snowmelt and thick dark clouds keep the sun from ever making the day actually feel warm.

You’ve got errands to run and a date with yourself at your favorite coffeeshop.

This is why clothing is such a big deal to me.  So many times clothing is actually a reflection of what’s on the inside. 

Here's a simple evening ritual that will take 5-10 minutes and will enhance your memory of your day while also keeping your life less cluttered.

I wrote this poem several years ago. I had spent months slogging through session after session with my therapist trying to make peace with my childhood. Really, I was trying to finally believe that it was alright to be queer.

I remember the first time I heard the word 'butch.'  Not just heard it. The first time someone called me butch.

You know inside who you are. In your quietest, deepest center, you have a knowing. That knowing is the only polestar you need.

Just buy the truck.

I realized that you never had someone like me in your life. You were just a scared teenager trying to find your way in the most unlikely of circumstances. But even then, even when you were still learning, still wondering, still trying to figure things out, you knew. You knew who you were. You knew what you were.