Look at us doing the goddamn most

Happy 100th post :)

Dearest F@ggots,

Don’t mind me. Just blowing up your inbox for purely celebratory purposes. We’ve reached 100 posts! Woo-woo.

In a perfect world, you would have woken up to a brand new Subaru, buried in Nasty Pig’s Sephora merch, double parked behind your car in the driveway. Sadly, our world’s less than perfect and that’s the one we live in. So, my promised pole and promised hole will have to do: You’re welcome.

Four years ago, after a tentative move from MailChimp, “I Came, I Saw, I Came Again: Part One and Part Two” marked a turn from horoscopes to personal-narrative-cosplaying-as-cultural criticism. (Am I a pretty essayist, mama?) Today, Dear Diary, You Are Failure marks our next move. Hello, TikTok! Kidding. They scare me over there. No, no, we’re staying put. All these years you’ve held space for heaven, hell, and everything else in between. Thank you.

Before the year is out, I plan on using the bottom of a bottle of poppers to crush up one of my SSRIs, snort it, and hit send. Hand to God, my anxiety’s keeping my fiction from you. And if you thought the essays were crazy . . . baby, wait for the prose. (Note to self: They can take it. You know they can. That’s what the streets stay saying about them. They can take anything. And so can you.)

Anyway, my dearest f@ggots, make some motherfuckin’ noise! No, really. Holler at ya boy in the comments. Bapping your gums over there makes the whole writerly enterprise seem significantly less lonely. Alexa, cue Thee Exit Music!

As always, take dick if that’s your thing. But most importantly, take care ;)

Sincerely,

E.Y. Washington

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