february is ugly but you don’t have to be

on my return to confession, surefire seasonal depression quickfix, Lana being Lana

2.15.2026

My priest called me an “asshole” before confession today. Not outloud, but loud enough for me, the father, the son, and the Holy Spirit to hear. To be fair, I am definitely, one hundred percent, an asshole. Only an asshole would make a joke out of stigmata in a church, during lent. During Ramadan, no less. When your palm starts bleeding seemingly out of nowhere— somewhere between forgive me, Father and it’s been 9 weeks since my last confession—well what would you call that, other than stigmata, then? (Some might call it clumsy, slicing open my hand while tripping into the confessional booth, but those kind of people lack imagination. This is why I’m a storyteller, and they’re not.)

I asked Father Kevin if he’d missed me—if he’d started to get a little worried I’d defected to the Buddhist monastery I’m always going on about. After filling the empty pews with his thick-as-Guinness laugh, he paused for a moment before responding no to both. But I’m on to him. There’s something in the way his eyes gleam when he listens—in the way he takes pride in molding me into someone who is, at the very least, spiritually Catholic—that betrays him. He does it with an avid regard that, with eyes closed, almost feels like a paternal love.

Before I leave, Father Kevin gifts me a journal to jot down my thoughts around Lent. It feels like a bribe, but I’m not inherently against those, so I accept. He thinks taking up something creative—that’s cathartic and focused, like writing—would be good for me. I say okay, yeah maybe, thanks but make him no promises I’ll use it. What would I even write about?

2.17.2026

This winter has cost me not one but two pairs of leather gloves. Both times I lost the right one. Slipping them off to use this goddamn piece of satanic rose gold shit phone, I’ll bet. I think it’s fitting my dominant scrolling hand is left naked and numb, out there in the cold. Maybe a mild case of frostbite will teach it a lesson.

Did you say peppermint earl grey tea the barista patiently asks again. Did I? The play of movement in the café is hypnotic, a tired fugue of decor and manners choreographed to a bossa nova soundtrack . I just wanted to go home.

Feeling like an idiot, I realize I did say peppermint earl grey tea, didn’t I? I’m sorry, whichever you have will do. He hands me a cup with two teabags. I hold it with my frigid right hand, the one without a glove, and let myself feel warm.

It’s peppermint earl grey tea.

2.19.2026

I don’t know what I was expecting from a song titled “White Feather Hawk Tail Deer Hunter” but it wasn’t a sweet nod to love under the guise of a haunted wind chime medley. Considering this is Lana del Rey we’re talking about, maybe I should have. Normally I'd roll my eyes at this Resident Evil meets the Blair Witch of the Louisiana bayou mashup but, because I genuinely think she is somehow able to be both deeply serious and unserious about this project, it works. Here we have another example of Lana doing what Lana does best—blending everyday moments (cooking for her white feather hawk tail deer hunter husband, being driven around on a tractor by said husband) into poetry. It’s not like they’re ever giving this woman a Grammy, anyway. So why not have the audacity to make it a little weird? Thank god some artists still do.

2.22.2026

If you, like me, are prone to coming down with a case of the morbs this time of year, I beseech you to put on some metallic pumps, leather pants, tittiest halter top, find your dearest friends, hell, even some strangers, and break bread with them immediately. This simple trick—an outfit that dares you to enjoy a meal in a room with no screens—is a factory reset for your sweatpants-muddled brain. Please note, it is important to not skimp on the tittiest top step, or else the whole experiment will fail. If you’re a man and have no tits of your own, I don’t know what to tell you. You should have found a warm pair to cozy up with like yesterday. They’re pretty fucking great.

me after watching eastern promises (2007)

“but I see a lot of intensity in her poems…even if they are all about suicide.” - Mary Gaitskill

txts from my friends, winter edition

“when I met him, like an arrow. like a bird in the heart, like a sparrow “- Lana del Rey