June 3rd, 2026
Somewhere between February and now, the universe decided to crank the difficulty setting up to “absurdist tragicomedy.” I’m down to 225 pounds (big achievement) a number that should feel triumphant but instead it feels like a receipt. Proof of purchase for pain endured. A ledger of sweat, hunger, and discipline that borders on self‑harm if you squint at it too long.
But weight loss is the least surreal part of the last few months for me.
Since the last segment of this story, I’ve been rejected by Publix for positions so unserious they might as well have been invented by a children’s book author: baker trainee and cake decorator.
Cake decorator. Even the frosting industry took one look at me and said, “No thanks, lady.” When I received the rejections via my email inbox, I couldn’t view them any other way than a savage cosmic joke, the type the universe decides to tell on a whim when it’s bored and wants to see if you’ll flinch. This felt like a humiliation so banal it becomes almost metaphysical.
I feel that both feelings are valid.
The Ant War
Then came the ant swarm.
Those irritating, panic inducing, six‑legged, unionized little bastards marching through the closet space I sleep in like they were reenacting the Battle of Thermopylae. I woke up one morning to find them swarming my hygiene rack, my shoes, my sanity. A biblical plague, but with worse timing.
I fought them with the desperation of someone who had nothing left to lose except their last shred of dignity.
And even that was negotiable.
The Zip Code Curse
In between the ant invasion and brutal realities of weight cutting I also had to mourn the possibility of securing any work in this town and held a silent funeral for this reality during long meditative walks in the heat & humidity of a looming southern summer, without flowers, without eulogies. Just me, staring at the wild scenery, realizing that the local economy had rejected me with the same enthusiasm as the Publix bakery department.
There’s a special form of grief that comes from realizing your zip code is a dead end. It all just feels very…heavy.
Like a wet blanket thrown over the progress you thought you’d make within the place you call “hometown “.
Implosion
Then the environmental sustainability internship I applied for collapsed not because of work ethic issues, not because of my writing ability, but because a mentor decided that teaching was beneath them. They wanted free labor and someone to grow their social media following, not a student or fair terms for them to work under.
So, I walked.
Or maybe escaped is the better word.
Stormfront
And through all of this, I decided to use my best strength to draw in an income for myself through pitching online pubs 4-6x per month.
DAME.
Undark.
Grist.
The Guardian.
Business Insider.
I pitched them from the outside of an old Mexican woman’s boutique where privacy was a fairytale, from a phone that overheats like a dying star, and during storms so fierce that the winds threaten to topple me & the rainfall was capable of drowning me...or even worse destroying the devices that I depended on to make headway. And when the internet died out at home which it did repeatedly, like a Victorian heroine fainting at the slightest provocation I gathered up those old devices and my raggedy umbrella and marched out into the storms.
I’ve written so many pitches in this heavy rain while ants and mesquites tore me the hell up & the sound of mariachi music & police sirens became the only sources of comfort that I had to distract me (I now love Mexican Vanilla Conchas due to the boutique lady letting me try some a few days back). in rainfall that seemed to be auditioning for a disaster movie. I’ve typed paragraphs with water dripping off my sleeves, with thunder rattling the bones of the neighborhood, with the sky screaming like it had a vendetta but I couldn’t allow myself to give up.
The Pivot (Again)
So, here’s the truth ya’ll
Right now, the smartest thing I can do & the only thing that fits my current circumstances, my lack of resources, my sanity, & my skillset is to pitch consistently.
To build income (even if small) from words.
To stabilize myself financially while I carve my body down to Navy standards.
To survive long enough to escape for good & slip the hangman’s noose.
This isn’t a writing career.
This is a lifeline.
A rope thrown across a chasm.
And I’m climbing it one pitch & one strategy at a time.
I’ve always believed in showing up with heart when the chips are down, even when the odds are stacked. Right now, I’m navigating food insecurity and housing instability while building toward a new and brighter future for myself. If my work, my words, or my story have resonated with you, I’d be deeply grateful for any support you can offer. Every donation helps me stay fed, cover transportation fees, and buy much needed resources while I finish out my enlistment and stay focused on the path ahead. Even $1 makes a difference.