A Definition of Your D.J.

Say hello to your new best fear: A six-foot-tall Atlantean princess risen from the afterlife with extraterrestrial hair the shade of sunshine and eyes so piercing they call them nuclear peppermint–a woman who pounds treadmills into puddles of tar and sweats like a glazed doughnut winks. A woman who acts like she could have been extracted by a Smithsonian helicopter from the depths of the Martian rainforest and put on private display as “Mystery Specimen from Another World.” A woman whose thighs are so luscious she has to kick the lenses of thirsty photographers into smithereens just to remain anonymous; whose hair has been the Hairy Grail of Pantene since the genesis of her first follicle in the womb. Say hello to a woman who runs as fast as a Ferrari, speaks as boldly as a Celtic queen, and dances like a whirling dervish at the crack of dawn. A hunter with a fiery focus who journeys through jungles with jaguars at her side; a face-painted phantom who jumps from vine to vine with titanium biceps and nearly snaps the trunks of sequoias into splinters, who climbs to the smoky summits of forbidden mountaintops and pounds her iron fists on her chest–say hello to the Champion of the Meteor Belt, the Athlete of the Ether, the Singer whose Records Revolve on Saturn’s Discs.

Just kidding, I’m more like your average human housecat and I like to eat, sleep, poop, and repeat. I have one of those Live Laugh Love signs in my house and I just recently colored my hair Havana Brown and wear a Starbucks macchiato on my sleeve. I like long walks to the buffet line and my soul is contained within the hollow nugget-sized arena of my Instagram account. To get me to fall for an evil witch’s dinner schemes, all you’d have to do is blaze a trail of pizza bites funneling directly into her bubbling cauldron. My wardrobe consists of nature and nudity in which I do westernized yoga poses and sigh with feigned emotional release when rising from downward dog. But not really, I mainly go for walks in the public park where I look like a highly upstanding citizen and if we were ever to be invaded by aliens, I would be the last boring mortal to get beamed up by Scotty.

In the larger phases of the moon when I’m not howling at it, I can whip up a dish of lemon crème lucidity swifter than a swashbuckler on steroids, shoot a silver arrow through the sound system of heaven and heave a hurricane into a high-pitched whine. You can convert thunder into bass drops, did you know? And when winter rolls around and the snow starts spitting fluffy profanities onto our driveways, I can tip an iceberg upside down and dive into a syrupy pool of subconscious, into the natatorium of night where starlit concepts swim like waltzing stanzas let loose from the library. And when the sun goes down, I straighten my spectacles and strengthen my resolve to pitch every last crate of British tea into the frothy void, strutting the red carpet of civil revolution like royal dynamite. Never forget: taxation is theft.

In all reality, I’m a wannabe Hermione who lurks in library halls just ready to worm her way into a good read, leaving behind a ghostly trail smelling of tea and sweaty pantyhose because really–when you have the option of sailing through the open sea of imagination vs. scrubbing down stockings (just so you can smell like powdered strawberries with a touch of bleach), what would you pick? I’m just kidding, I only said that for dramatic effect. I’m actually bathing in a vat of strawberry milk right now while chugging along the sea of imagination, and I was never allowed to watch “Harry Potter” as a child. (What a plot twist, eh?) To the wise and elderly, I’m a shameless beatnik whose giraffe neck should definitely have a snap in the pillory and whose Life GPA can only be improved with a few straw brooms spanks to the bent-over butt. Which is probably true. We humans tend to be ferally warlike, and sometimes it’s good to get sent through the chomping blades of discipline and come out the other side sharp as a toucan’s beak, getting trimmed from a wretched pile of untamed seaweed to a crisp bouquet of cilantro. Sometimes you need to get beaten to a pulp to realize your inner orange.

I have an appetite for antiquity, a love of history, and an inherent craving for sacred geometry–one glance at a juicy dodecahedron and I’ve probably already whisked it into my Portfolio of Phenomenal Phantasms. I like puppies and little figurines of toadstools and faerie lights and German folktales. I like chocolate chip cookies made with supremely expensive medicinal honey that is so freakishly immune-boosting you can time-travel with it (as long as you’re capable of eating a millennium of cookies, but don’t tell the Russians I know that). I believe in the power of kung fu, the ancient rite of trial by combat, and believe that with enough tubs of Butthurt Balm, we can make America mature again. 

And… that’s all you need to know.