I hit my I-hate-Valentine’s Day wall a few years back, having grown tired of giving my power away to a random winter’s day and all the propaganda that went along with it. Railing against Valentine’s Day took just as much effort as playing into Valentine’s Day, while proving equally stupid.

I couldn’t put either my proverbial or fleshborne fingers on it. Conceptually, I knew that I was having sex (it was obvious; I was pinned beneath a naked man who was grunting, heaving and thrusting over me) but my feeling experience—down there—just wasn’t quite right.

It’s Christmas Eve, and I’m playing cat’s cradle with an unruly tangle of thoughts telling me I should feel happy, I should act merry, I should engage in festive revelry. But I’m not feeling it and haven’t felt it yet, not since that first digital snowflake fell across an innocent Google search, or a glittery felt version affixed itself to a retail shop window, and certainly not now. Christmas—what does it even mean anymore?

It was snowing, and I was on foot, determined to find no less than every piece of art hidden around the city, as part of Caldera Gallery’s Hide and Seek treasure hunt for all.

I’m sprawled on my belly at Ten Thousand Waves, languishing in The Fountainhead, milking these last few moments of mid-fall sunshine for all the vitamin D they’re worth, while my boyfriend’s eyes are glued to an old man’s scrotum.

As a longtime 13 Moon calendar advocate formerly obsessed with the Maya(n) calendar, as well as the accompanying lore, allow me to clarify: The end of the Maya(n) calendar (Dec. 21, 2012) is not the end of the world; it is merely the end of three-dimensional existence as we know it. With this in mind, my last day of linear Gregorian cluster-fuckiness here in Santa Fe would look a little something like this:

I’ve agreed to accompany my friend Daniel to the first Look to the Horizon: Scholarship Performance, and while I’m excited to share a cultural happening with an awesome human, my expectations are still hovering slightly below rock bottom. As a dance snob so often underwhelmed by the shows I frequent in New York and Los Angeles, I hardly expect Santa Fe’s local teen contingent to dazzle me.

I was suspended from a Velcro chin-strap, bobbing in the chlorine-stinky swimming pool I shared with a handful of geriatric stroke victims three times a week, when I decided I was going to be an aerialist.

 You wake up in a flurry of expletives at 5:38 am, cursing your iPhone alarm for being so damned lovely and inaudible. If you’d gotten up at 5:11, as you’d intended, you’d have tim

As a rebel Aquarian, I’ve yet to cozy up to Independence Day and the requisite summertime frolic that trails its threadbare ideals.