You told me justice had been served—not just for me—for all the kids I saved from having to play her games. I was proud of that. I was public about that. I carried that win like a gold medal. If I could put my own abuser away at four years old, what couldn’t I do?

I know she’s here. The panther. I can’t see her yet, but I feel her moving through the house. Gliding from kitchen to dining room to living room, always circling. Her coat is thick and black, swallowing every trace of light. I can feel the weight of her gaze. I feel her in my teeth, in my gut, in the rising panic building in my chest.

You're standing in a cramped jazz club on the Lower East Side, well past midnight, sweat-glossed bodies pressed shoulder to shoulder. The air is thick with bourbon, aged wood, and anticipation. A saxophonist steps into the spotlight, lifts his horn, draws a deep breath, and releases a solo neither planned nor rehearsed. No sheet music. No recording. Just this moment. And then—gone.

As a kid, I spent countless summer days alone. My bedroom window was my only viewpoint, framing a world both painfully close and impossibly far.

It had been raining off and on all day—the kind of rain that never really clears, just hangs around waiting. The forecast said thunderstorms, but the sky didn’t show it. I knew better. The weather wasn’t to be trusted.

We humans tend to see ourselves as finished products—the pinnacle of evolution, defined by our capacity for rational thought. But what if rationality itself is an unfinished evolutionary experiment?

Inviting cannabis into the bedroom offers a chance to experience a more intuitive mind-body-soul connection—whether you’re flying solo, with a partner, or even in a threesome (no judgment here).