I’ve been in Vermont for the past few days; my sister rented a cabin for us. I woke up this morning, looking forward to enjoying our last moments in the absolute quiet of nature when I broke out in hives. Everywhere. I don’t know what caused it; I just know I downed so much liquid Benadryl that I’m still totally high and out of it over six hours later. So please, enjoy the second installment of this still work-in-progress attempt at bonus content, now with the added edge of my delirium!
At some point this week, I walked around the property and stumbled upon a cemetery. Just a few feet away from the house we rented, completely obscured by gigantic willow trees, seemingly abandoned. At first, I couldn’t see them at all; my friend Eve spotted them, a glimpse of stone in a sea of greens, oranges, and reds. Real gravestones for the Spaulding family grave, which apparently also comes with its own vampire lore; stories of family curses and haunted vines.
I do believe in ghosts. That’s why when the rest of the group went off on an adventure later that day, I insisted on staying home alone to take a bath. To both entice a ghost and for a much-needed moment of solace to process the recent ghosting that occurred in my life. I didn’t see any ghosts, but I did have a good conversation with my friend Naila, who is, in my humble opinion, one of the greatest living writers and thinkers of our time. You can subscribe to her substack here.
She and I were discussing ghosting, how pervasive it has become, how thoroughly disgusted we as ~a society~ have become with anything that isn’t pleasant and convenient, the ultimate western experience, and how I’d personally rather fucking die than look out for myself and myself alone, to which she responded:
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