notes from march: very public, very sacred space

We’ve been doing this for a year now. It’s funny—I started this blog in March, a month I’ve never had any reason to look forward to. In fact, I’ve always considered it my least favorite month. But now, I guess it’s our month. It’s our anniversary.

Honestly, I didn’t think I’d keep up with the blog. In those first few months, I was sure I’d disappear, go dark, and eventually have to explain my absence—probably making up some excuse that started with “I’m going through something” and ended with “I’m sorry.” But here we are, and you’re stuck to me.

Thank you to all my readers for being a part of my ongoing and, at times, quite frivolous self-analysis, and bearing with me as I grow as a writer. I read every comment and look forward to updating you. You’ve made me love my computer again. I began, “I WILL DO WHATEVER I WANT,” in a moment of frustration with the internet. I felt lost in a top-heavy pile of bullshit after sacrificing my early 20s to the gods of virality. I was mad with a lot of words to share without an outlet to do so.

I’m always shocked at how much good a little anger can do.

Anyway, your presence in my life is felt and I hope we can continue to meet here for as long as I feel like it.

Here are my notes from March:

• My roommate Taryn and I spent an afternoon playing our favorite game of hypotheticals—picking a male celebrity and dissecting the ins and outs of a possible relationship with them. We both agreed that my relationship with John Lennon would be extremely toxic, inevitably ending with me throwing a piano bench out the window of our shared apartment. If I had more time on my hands I would’ve already written a three-chapter fanfic about this, thank god I am busy. Historically, I’m more of a Paul girl, but Taryn thinks that he and I wouldn’t have great chemistry. We also discussed me and Channing Tatum—obviously, he’d call me “Mack” or “Kenzie” right away, summer fling would ensue, and we’d part ways in early September.

• Two men DM’d me three days apart and told me that they had dream about me giving them hugs:

  

• My friend Nicole is visiting from LA, which is a major net positive for my soul—but also a serious safety hazard for both of us. We can have fun anywhere, walk into any room, and make it work for us—and that’s exactly the problem.

  The other night, after our friend Maude’s (x) concert at Brooklyn Steel, we decided to push our luck and hit a karaoke bar down the street. We walked in just as someone was butchering New York, New York, and the place seemed slow—maybe 20 people, max. I went up to the bar, ordered a mezcal mule, and requested Movin’ Out by Billy Joel, which, in hindsight, was my first mistake. Nicole recorded as I took the stage. I didn’t even get through the first four counts before a man from a table in the back ran up, got in my face, and started barking the lyrics at me. In the moment, I didn’t think much of it—people often tell me I’m a mesmerizing performer— and I wouldn’t be me if I didn’t give a captive audience a full show. So, I fully understand how someone could hear me sing Billy Joel at karaoke and react like a shipwrecked sailor hearing a big-titted siren’s song in a moment of desperation. Movin’ Out ended, I joined Nicole at our window table, and we took out our phones to compare videos of Maude’s set. Almost immediately, the same man appeared. “Do you guys mind if I join you?” We declined. He retreated, standing awkwardly near a table of women a few feet away from us. Nicole suggested we sing Shallow—she was the boy, and I was the girl. As I got up to grab another drink, I noticed him still looking in my direction. I should have felt uncomfortable earlier, but this fully freaked me out. I catch his gaze by accident, and he starts to put his coat on, before leaving he sits down at your table one more time, asking both of us, “so… do you guys wanna come home with me?” Both of us said no—Nicole’s always been good at making her voice sound particularly disgusted when the situation calls for it. He walked out without another word. I started laughing a little too much, forgetting that we were sitting in front of a window facing the street. Nicole grabbed my leg. “Stop laughing,” she whispered. “You’re being watched.” I pulled it together. A group of women from a few tables over leaned in and asked if we knew him. Nicole kept her eyes on the window. Then she grabbed me again. “Look, he’s coming back with sunglasses on.” I turned. There he was—walking back toward the bar, with urgency, now wearing a pair of 2012 Ray-Bans. We made a beeline for the back of the bar and headed straight for the basement. “We’re gonna hear shots,” Nicole panicked, only half joking but fully serious. We hid out for five minutes in a Barbarian-esque (2022) basement, waiting until we were sure the coast was clear. When we resurfaced, the gay bartender gave us a slap on the wrist for entering the basement without permission. Obviously, it was time to go home— we called separate Ubers and got out of there.

• I’m coming to terms that being spiteful is an unmovable part of my personality.

• I came into daylight saving time hungover which felt like a bad omen.

• I think it’s really important to visit Brandy Melville quarterly to check in on the girls. I recently went on a trip there with my friend Rayne, where I insisted she eavesdrop with me—after we’d already overheard several delicious conversations about the pitfalls of underage drinking—on a couple arguing just beyond my earshot. The only part I managed to catch was when the boyfriend picked up a Mirabella dress (x) on a hanger before turning to his girlfriend, and saying, “Tonight, you’re gonna put that on for me,” before running off to the cash register and walking out.

  

• Since becoming single, I’ve been having a lot of those conversations with my friends. So what are you gonna do now? I’m not sure. I’ve never been one to rush into anything or anyone. Despite having all the hallmarks of a spontaneous spirit, I’m overly calculated, constantly weighing the pros and cons before even saying hello. I’ve benefited from this greatly in ways, but also stunted myself in other areas. I placed one of my more shocking cards on the table the other night over pizza dinner with my friend Sophia. “I know this isn’t going to sound real,” I told her, “but I’ve actually only had sex with three people in my entire life.” When I tell people this they always seem confused at first. I watch them shift stories I’ve told them over the years, wordlessly, before settling on a supportive ‘thumbs up’ face. I’m choosy to a fault about who I want in my life so I’m rarely in awkward situations. I’m learning now that sex mostly stems from situations that have awkward beginnings, but I’m not willing to make the leap and change my lifestyle. I would be lying if there wasn’t a little bit of shame attached to this truth, but I don’t think it’s worth chewing on. I am who I am, and I don’t think I’m weird.

• They finally cleaned the steps at my subway stop. They are usually caked in pigeon shit and I had been plotting a way to clean them myself this Spring if nobody got around to it before me. Imagine my surprise the other day when I was taking the M to Manhattan and saw that someone finally did the task that I was so ready to do myself. I took a video of the steps and realized I didn’t have anyone to send it to, which made me feel pretty lonely. However, I guess it’s important to document things that only mean something to you. I’m sure I’ll come across this video in a few years time and remember all the pigeon shit and my thoughts about scrubbing it clean, and probably feel something nice.

• Discussed bikini waxes with a friend and shared that I’ve never had one— why would I let a stranger hurt me in that way?

• Bought a sleep mask material for better sleep after having a 5-day panic about my dark circles. I got earplugs and a sleep mask, and anticipated new levels of sleep, but honestly, I am sleeping much worse lately. Too dark in there. Too quiet in there. Too much sensory deprivation for my taste. I wake up in the middle of the night feeling bored and throw everything on the floor before rolling back over.

• Whenever I hold a baby, they cry.

• The Pavlovian response one receives after hearing their favorite song from an ex-workplace’s playlist in public.

• Started going to the dollar store again. When I lived in LA, I would stop by the ones in my neighborhood every other day before heading home to make dinner or write. There’s something about being surrounded by things under five dollars—slightly off, slightly strange—that makes my head feel clear. When I moved to New York, I neglected this habit by accident, and I think my creativity suffered greatly. It feels good to return to something so easy and crucial. In LA, I always came home with something to make art with or something to add to a growing collection. The other day, I treated myself to a question mark birthday candle, which felt like a true marker of my return to dollar store patronism. I have a baggie of them in my room, but I haven’t purchased a new one since my move back to the East Coast. I’m not sure what I’m collecting them for, but whenever I see one, I can’t leave the store without getting one or two.

• Coconut oil is one of my absolute favorite tastes— I think, mostly because it tastes a little bit forbidden, like how a child would imagine slime or batteries to taste before trying them for real and being disgusted. I bought myself a jar as a treat at the beginning of the month and I’m almost done with the jar. When there is a lull in the day I’ll just take a tablespoon and swish it around in my mouth and walk around my apartment. It hits every. single. time.

• I don’t have BPD, I’m just a victim of Corinne Bailey Rae’s discography.

• The beautiful anime girl that lives inside me is scratching to get out.

• Described someone as having problems beyond astrology.

• Everyone I want to eat a seafood boil with has a weird hang-up about fish.

• Took a leap of faith and went blindly to a show around the corner from my house as an effort to connect with an old friend, and ended up going home early because someone set off a stink bomb, and one of the performers ate rotten eggs out of a diaper.

  

• I’ve always identified as a Hannah, but recently I’m in a moment of Marnie-ism.

• My scanner finally stopped working the other night. It still prints, but I never used it for that—I could never justify the cost of printer ink. I put it out on the curb with a note, figuring someone might still want it for the printing feature. A TikTok mutual sold it to me for fifteen dollars five years ago. You’d think lugging an office scanner from apartment to apartment, and eventually across the country, would be a burden, but that was never the nature of our relationship. There were days when all I wanted was to lock myself inside and make something worth scanning, and nights when I’d fall asleep with the big thing beside me in bed. I made Personal Heaven (x) with it, along with a bunch of other stuff that never left my bedroom. Though I’m thankful for the extra space, I do find my scanners exit to be quite brutal in this season of change. It feels like everything around me if breaking for the best, and it’s morbid but necessary. I’m trying to embrace it. In the wake of my scanner’s death, I tossed out a pair of hole-y shoes, broke three different pairs of earbuds, spilled turmeric all over my favorite jeans, and bought the wrong size duvet cover for my bed. I scanned Facebook Marketplace for a new scanner, but decided it might be too soon to think about financing a replacement. RIP.

• I spent the first warm day of the year alone in my room, crying—not how I intended to spend it, but the sun will be back in a week. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised; nothing is going my way right now. A couple of my friends have joked that in the last couple of weeks, I’ve been striking out in a biblical sense, and with my period almost 50 days late—I do feel very New Testament.

• Am I moving my face in a way that upkeeps my beauty or makes me uglier?

• I let Clementine by Elliott Smith (x) ruin my day more than it should. I didn’t grow up listening to his music and still don’t know many of his songs, but I found this one through that semi-viral video of him performing it on a morning show in the mid-’90s. I love the lyric, “Street’s wet, you can tell by the sound of the cars.” I think that’s why I keep hitting play—I wish I could come up with something as simple yet effective as that.

• I’m ending this month in my bed, the morning after a very impromptu Harry Potter movie marathon with my friend Ian. He never watched them as a child due to his religious upbringing. We sat on the couch from 12 pm to 1 am and took walks in between films. Ian thinks I shouldn’t be allowed to say I read the Harry Potter books because I listened to the audiobook version as a child— the books were above my reading level at the time. I don’t know if I agree. But this morning, here in bed, I’m feeling oddly thankful for the safe-bet friends I have. I’m in a moment of upheaval, and after all the annoyance, they are such a great reward.

Again, thank you to all my readers. I know I said I wanted to plan something special to celebrate our first year together, but I can’t be bothered this month. Maybe sometime in the future when money isn’t as tight.

Thank you for giving me this very public, very sacred space.

XOXOXO FOREVER IN DEBT TO YOU

— Mackenzie