We did it.

I love it when it gets back to me that someone I don't even know has been talking badly about me. Like, yes. Yes. Speak my name. Say it out loud. Keep saying it. The virus doesn't care that its host likes or dislikes it, only that it has a warm place where it's given permission to replicate.

I found that despite my strong-willed and disagreeable nature, I loved to be of service. And I am not just talking sexually (Although I am definitely not excluding it): I'd get a thrill out of serving someone food that I'd made, or fetching an extra chair so they could sit down. I strongly craved control, but I also craved it being taken away, and there was something delicious about that moment when I exercised my free will and my creative spirit to voluntarily give up that free will. I came to realize that to kneel meant I could look "upwards," into a moment, into a sky and an atmosphere, that was greater than me, and allow myself to be subsumed and transformed by it. Everyone has to serve something, even if it's just an idea, and what you choose to serve reveals what you value and have invited inside yourself. If I refused to give up that illusion of control and decided I'd only serve myself, I wouldn't find a sky. I'd only stare straight down into my navel, and I'd begin to consume and spit out pieces of myself until there was nothing left but a mangled ego, bruised and disconnected from any greater truth. Although what I came to understand, is that in calling myself a slave, I was denying the responsibilities that had been given to me that required autonomy, discernment, pushback, and grace. I recognized that I was a man's property, because I had chosen it, and what was required of me was to embody the spirit of an equal who had chosen to submit to a vision, an idea, that would take and transform us both for its purpose. I was not a slave. I was not just a servant. I was the highest of all servants. The ultimate servant—designed to help fulfill every need, to bring succor in grief and satisfaction in love. I was a wife.

This is quantum mechanics

Something about this young wild place that keeps me yearning and churning

People are nicer to you when you are wearing a pretty dress because you are making the decision in dressing up to be nicer to the world.

USA is unique in that it created a society of basic guardrails modelled on Judeo Christian social expectations, on a land mass of amazing natural resources. It embraced individuals, those that take risks, and those aspiring to dream big. We are fortunate they are our neighbours.

I did not find God in a church, I found God because I heard a still and unrelenting voice that ran in currents through all of existence, whether I was on the floor dizzy and sick with crying and liquor, or I was on the edge of a lake watching the birds dip down into the ochre of the sunset. And over the years, I learned that if I was honest and sincere and willing to hear an answer, I could speak to this voice and it would speak back to me, and it would always speak the Truth. Sometimes this truth came to me in fragments, distorted, or in ways that I couldn't yet comprehend, but it was still truth. I called myself an atheist. I told myself it was just my brain externalizing and anthropomorphizing an unknowable experience. I called it intuition. I called it my own emotional impulses. But I couldn't deny when the voice commanded me, when it guided me, with such absolute authority, with such calm knowledge, that it felt like disobeying would be like trying to disobey the law of gravity. At some point, almost half jokingly, I said to myself I was sick of my petty failures and my bad ways and I was ready to commit to following God, and I clearly heard a voice inside me demanding that I grab my bottle of whiskey and pour it down the sink. I balked. I didn't want to. It seemed silly. But the voice said, "You say you want to follow me, and you can't even give me one token gesture of your commitment?" So I poured the whiskey down the sink. I didn't need a priest or official proceedings, and I didn't know it at the time, but what had just happened was a ritual. A sacrifice was made. A covenant. From that moment on I gave him permission to infiltrate my life, to transform me. And he did. Later, I decided to read the bible, for the first time in 15 years, and I found the things this voice spoke to me confirmed in its words. Because the Truth is absolute, and although circumstances and culture changes, the truth never does. And it just confirmed for me you don't need a book to bring you to the truth. You don't need to know and praise Jesus's name to be transformed by his existence. It's all inside you. It always is, and it always will be, because the truth resides in every single molecule in existence. Consciousness is recursive, and the "I am" that is everything in existence is constantly self-referencing itself, looping backward to experience itself, telling the same stories over and over wherever you look.

It's a little disappointing that the kind of people who have the verve and ability and courage to climb the Empire State Building and risk their entire lives and reputation to convey a message rarely have anything actually interesting to say.

Given that this has been true since our founding, it’s surprising it took us 250 years to come up with the word that finally captures it: retardmaxxing

fucking love and believe every single word of this

RT @mimi_aboubaker: cannot underemphasize the profound betterment of my writing after deciding to “cancel myself”—frees you from the intell…

Truth!!!!

Most people treat "trying" like it's a disease to be avoided. The smart ones run headlong into brick walls because they know how easy it is to pick self up after a few months of heavy tears

Here's what @grant_wamack has to say about my upcoming book, I'm Your Cult Leader, Baby: "Autumn Christian deftly taps into the dark vein of Los Angeles and reveals the glitter, glam, and suffering within. She pulls you into a suffocating narrative and convinces you to dance despite seeing yourself bleed out. I’m Your Cult Leader, Baby is a masterful novel full of power dynamics, vanity, desperation, and gods.” —Grant Wamack, author of The Frolicking.

I fucking love America because it's a place that encourages you to fail. Blow up your life. Fall without a safety net. Start 7 businesses and go bankrupt. Join a cult. Get divorced 6 times. Make a ton of money in a ridiculous scheme and then blow it all on bad investments. Build a hydroponic shrimp tank business in your basement. Enroll your kids in a school where they practice telepathy. Have a secret family. Shoot your foot off with a gun. Buy drugs that make you go insane. Drive your RV off a cliff. Crash your own private plane off the coast during a storm. In America, you can fail so fast, and so hard, and so beautifully—every one of us has the opportunity to blow our wings off flying toward a crazy dream.

Yeehaw.

Men, you never know what your children will notice. My daughter has been drawing scenes from our family life and this is the latest. I don’t even remember her being present for this, but postpartum, my husband helps me sit up/get out of bed whenever I need it. He’s so gentle and kind. For us, it’s just routine recovery. For our daughter, apparently it’s a formative memory. It’ll shape what she looks for in a future husband. What kind of love are you teaching your daughter to expect?

I self isolate because I feel vulnerable and deeply annoyed in the face of other people's stupidity. But this year I came to the conclusion I was being too precious, and sacrificing the potential of human connection just so that I wouldn't have to face the feeling of being mildly irritated seemed like a bad bargain. So I joined a mom's group, started doing yoga, signed my daughter up for dance class, have more conversations with strangers, started going to church, inviting people over for dinner, call friends more often, email more people for random queries, started taking more opportunities to be around people in general. Because the truth is, we all fall short of seeing each other, truly seeing each other, myself included, but showing up and being open to what may be slight discomfort or the random chaos of people's stupidity with a genuine kindness and interest really matters a lot.

The right man for you isn't going to need elaborate rituals and kinks to be able to get it up and have sex. If his cock doesn't harden at the mere sight of you, like your visage is the weapon that struck a wellspring inside of him that's now suddenly gushing forth, then he isn't the one, Queen.

I can't wait for this one. This book might have been made specifically for me.