I Whisper
I am not the things I like,
I am not my hands, eyes, or mind.
Should I focus on on these animal feelings?
No— just type and look busy.
I am not my crazy thoughts on the frays of my brain
and I am not the self-interested kind, I have
songs I can sing in my head, I am projecting
Finding Nemo from memory
— onto the backs of my eyelids like Plato’s allegory.
I have a mom I have a dad I am a sister
I am a friend.
I am a Mom, I am my Dad, I am your sister,
I am your friend.
-October 27, 2025
Everything is High School
At my super experienced and ripe age of 24: obviously, I know everything. Well, a 24-year-old-girl’s everything, being nothing at all. One of my favorites of my repertoire is my ability to point out a mean girl from 3 miles away. It would be farther but apparently that is the farthest any human with 20/20 vision can see. In my two dozen years on Earth, I have pitted all mean girls to a certain phenotype. And reader, do not think I don’t love all of these girls… at one point I really did. Sure, consider me “pick me” consider me insufferable, consider me jealous. But truth be told, I’ve been all of these girls at one point. I have listed them for your reading pleasure below.
Type 1. The Megalomanic
This is the most obvious of all the mean girls. She will blatantly insult you in front of your boyfriend, pick fights, and cause strife. The Megalomaniac will riff with you, and after 30 minutes you will realize she has been subtly making fun of you the whole time. She’s never been seen NOT drunk past 9pm. She’s a storyteller, style fascist, and walking ticking-time-bomb, This girl is above ALL.
“Oh, we can’t go to that bar, that bar is stupid. No, no, don’t order that, it makes you look desperate. Oh my god! Did you just say that out loud?” She says, to you, but making eye contact with someone else.
These girls are ruthless. And confident. And pretty. Most of the time, you will be a part of their social circle and they will consider you a friend. It will be one night, where you catch her alone, and you realize she isn’t as ‘mega’ as she lets on. She’s depressed. And honestly… it makes you like her more. Her thinness is not the performative anorexia you thought it was. Her designer clothes have wine stains up close. Her bedside table could be a cry for help. Really, you can see it clearly: these girls live on a stage. Once you go behind the curtain, it’s almost like there’s nothing there.
Doctor (Dr. Cece) Prescribes: Go to her house for a “Wine Night”, steal some of her makeup or perfume or maybe ask to “borrow” her shoes and never give them back. This way, all the terrible things she’s ever said to you are somewhat justified in your mind for the rest of your life. Don’t show up anywhere you know she will be. And remember that friends that make you feel like shit could never actually be your friends, and never were.
Type 2. The Petulant
This girl is a sulky, sad little victorian child you clings onto her friends hoping they will be her mommy, or sister, or girlfriend, even though she’s not gay. She’s afraid of everything, sensitive, and confused. At this point, you may feel bad for her, right? WRONG! That’s how she gets her power… like some sort of emotional empowerment succubus. She gets lost within one glass of wine, will ask you if it’s OK if your boyfriend will carry her to her room. Her meds…. she didn’t eat…. she’s irresponsible and loves it.
It’s pretty cool at first how much of a feather in the wind she can be. She’s relatively mysterious, yet an oversharer for pity’s sake. She’s very encouraging, but then…… JEALOUS! Here’s where the mean girl kicks in. Everything you do is now seen as a threat. It took me a while to realize why: this ‘manic-pixie’ persona, the flightiness, the gaunt, giant doll-eyes accentuated with makeup, it’s all curated. The second this girl dubs you as “cooler” than her… it’s game over. It’s very…. “Single White Female” in the way that every song, movie, book that you enjoy shows up in her catalog. She collects your persona, and you can tell she’s done it to 30000 other girls, and that’s why she’s so…. soulless. The whole thing, the ether-based friendship, was an echo chamber. She needs you. She needs you like an insure seven-year old girl. She wants to feel independent, and better than you: and also needs you to tell her that. It’s a giant damsel-in-distress situation, and for some reason, it’s you (?) that needs to save her, and from what exactly?
Doctor (Dr. Cece) Prescribes: Do not get any closer to this person, and do not share any details about yourself unless you want every bartender in town to know every unattractive thing about you. Buy The Petulant some weed, and tell her it’s best to “take some space” from the friendship when you drop it off. They cannot handle anything more direct or will implode in front of you and you will go to jail.
Type 3. The Old Ass
The girls, or should I say ladies…(?) are OLD! Why are they so mean? These 35+ vindictive weirdos are ubiquitous– your best friend’s wedding, the Gap, the beach, don’t matter. And unlike the other two phenotypes, they WILL directly tell you you’re fat, ugly, and they hate you. The biggest thing to grapple with is most of these women have children, God forbid they talk to them like this. Another challenging aspect is I have not been this woman before…. yet, I guess. They’re somehow extremely covertly rude while looking into your eyes. If passive-agressiveness was a sport, they would be disqualified. They will comment on how much you’re eating, if you should wear what you’re wearing, question why you are wearing what you’re wearing, if you’re drinking enough, or too much, and ask if you think you’re out of your boyfriend’s league all in one conversation. They’re married to a cop, or cop-adjacent, and somehow feed off of how controlling their husbands are. They’ve never once said anything affirming to you… no “so glad you’re here” or, “you look great!” even if it was fake. The Old Ass is miserable, and hides it well.
Doctor (Dr. Cece) Prescribes: Nothing, but copious amounts of alcohol to get through whatever social situation you’re in with this woman. If alcohol isn’t available: play the jester and turn everything she says into a joke, or, and even better: when she makes jokes, just say them louder is everyone laughs at you and not her. Make your presence known, and do not shrink down to be her size. Be yourself and be it loudly. — October 2025
Walk A Mile in… Who’s Shoes?
Yesterday, at my part-time fun-job’s weekly wine tasting, I complimented this very adorable, yet kooky woman’s shoes.
“Do you want them?” she inquired in response.
“What? How? Me?” I stammered, in front of the counter.
“Try them on. They’re too big for me. I run the thrift store next door and just don’t need them.”
Something about it was extremely genuine. I truly believed she wanted me to have them more than she needed them. So I tried them on, and they fit perfectly. I pranced around the store, showing off the secondhand and bodily-warmed oxfords.
“Yep– they’re yours,” she affirmed. “I’ll be back on Monday to give them to you.”
This exchange reminds me of how much I love the community of my city. I tell the kooky lady that. She smiles, and prompts me to put my number in her phone. I never got her name, but I’m getting her shoes. I leave the wine store, look down at my phone, and chuckle at the text from an unsaved number: “Cec elia mondays Oxford SHOEs” –August 29, 2025
Travelling
I can’t stop looking at flights. From here, from there, from everywhere. Especially wine glass in hand, typing loudly on my new, used, but, first ever MacBook. (Thanks, dad! Best birthday gift ever!) I feel the most comfortable in myself when I’m Carrie Bradshaw-ing. Paris to Stockholm, Richmond to Mexico City, Raleigh to Copenhagen. I have to know every single potential window for travel and how much it would cost. I can’t help it… a girl loves being on holiday. Everything about it: the drive home from work the day before; anxiety buzzing, anticipation practically girly-screaming inside of your chest. Feeling unwarrantedly important in the airport. Getting buzzed at the hotel bar asking where other guests are from. Gleaming through the window of the Uber at the first sights of the new city. Ugh– I’m getting worked up just thinking about it.
Me, my boyfriend, and my guy friends are taking a trip to Austin, Texas at the end of the month and I’m so obsessed with making it the best trip I’ve ever been on. Which is huge plane seats to fill… considering the amazing trips I’ve been lucky enough to embark on. For some reason… this trip feels oddly special. Maybe it’s the idea of moving there in a few years that really gets me excited to see what the big Te-has is all about. Wine bars, thrift shops, live music, crystal, cold river water– all being sold to me…. we’ll see if Austin can close the deal and concurrently if I can make this the best trip I’ve ever been on. Check back in September! –August 4, 2025
Festivities
Full hands, wine openers
Rocking the boat, your friends could respect you if they tried,
maybe they tried.
Full hearts, cards up sleeves
magic mirrors that will make you believe anything,
when they cry.
All of these, festivities,
are really drunken blunderings ribboned up as camaraderie.
–July 16, 2025
Bruh
If you were me this past weekend, also in chronological order, Thursday to Monday:
- Pay off your car
- Put almost 1000 bones into your car (new tires, control arms, bushings, and bearings) so it runs for like 3 more years, please, god, please let it run for three more years…
- Friday morning field trip to Northern Virginia for work. Drive your car 2 hours for work.
- See best friend Amy in Northern Virginia after work, drive 45 more minutes after work.
- Have awesome time with Amy, drive 30 more minutes to restaurant.
- Drive home from restaurant.
- Ask Amy why the hell the car is making this noise of death and dishonor…?
- Your tires start shaking, the wheels shaking and the gulung-gulung-gulung noise of your car intensifies.
- Cry
- Get home safely– despite the very unsafe noises and motions of your newly-paid-off car.
- Wake up stranded in Northern Virginia
- text both jobs, get a reply from neither boss
- try to find a mechanic open on a damn Saturday
- find one
- to make this list shorter…he fixes the car
- he tells you that the mechanic you went to forgot to put the lugnuts on your tires and if you had driven any more your tires would have fallen off on the road causing a potentially fatal accident
- Question everything?
- Drive home Sunday morning wondering why only this shit happens to you
- remember to call the court building because you ~might~ have jury duty
- Get summoned for jury duty Monday fucking morning.
- Drive to jury duty wondering why this shit only happens to you.
— June 30, 2025
Weekend Weirdness
Still recovering from a weekend of truly horrendous decisions. I won’t reveal too much— as I’m scared someone highly important at my job will find this and something bad will happen if I disclose such actions. Let’s just say all the [redacted] and staying up until [redacted] in the morning and not stopping at [redacted] is enough to put this poor writer into a deep-dark depression well, with the water bucket of anxiety ever-so-slightly-out-of-reach reading, “YOU DON’T DESERVE ONE THING YOU HAVE!” Also, a fight with my boyfriend completely instigated by me to end the weekend on a lovely, shrill, insufferable note. I go to bed with a headache and wake up a shell of myself.
Monday morning: work work, call insurance, whisper so no one hears you’re basically pleading for the kind lady named Adria or some shit to find you a therapist within your network. Monday afternoon: Work work, get said list…. cry cry…. find the one therapist online who looks like she might have a soul behind her eyes, go to Cookout and absolutely slam a Diet Coke and cheeseburger, cry onto cheeseburger. Call therapist. Leave weird voicemail. She gets back! Boyfriend calls. Feel better. Book first EVER therapy appointment. Feel OK. Monday afternoon: pet cat, contemplating how to write this letter without reveling in my bitchiness or revealing too much. Maniacally clean. Begrudgingly cook brussel sprouts and salmon. Breathe, and write:
I’ve lost a lot of really great people in my life due to bad choices. I’d like to not. Whether avoidable or not: friends have walked away from me, for “not being enough” or, even more awesome, “being too much.” I know what I am. I’m relatively honest about it. I’m a good person that latches, bites, and lashes out sometimes— mostly random times. Like those ugly yip-yip dogs. Not for everyone. But, being self aware doesn’t make you better. I’d like to keep the incredible people who have stuck around in my life. So it’s time to increase those odds in any way that I can. I’m cheers-ing myself with a fork full of salmon, saying “here’s to almost 24, here’s to bettering, peppering, and becoming, here’s to owning up to your shit.” —June 23, 2025
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In the Market for New Blue Light Glasses
Just got back from visiting my best friend in Stockholm, Sweden. A quick video edit will be linked here shortly! Ok, me again, click this! I needed a reason to start making things again… hence, website, editing, camera, recollecting old work– what I liked about it, what I can improve on. I think the reason for stepping away from making art was mainly because of how much I hate being on the computer. I work 9-5, and I really love it, but the last thing I want to do is to stare at a computer screen for the remainder of my day doing MORE photo and video editing. I suppose this is the drawback to landing a job that your degree was for: it’s not for fun anymore. In ways, this makes me feel more normal,
“Ok, Cece, you are not a deranged, unique, unemployed artist vain-person with only lofty skills…”, I say to myself, rocking back and forth, all fluoride-stared and corporate jardoned out. Whatever. Your path is your path. Here’s to making things for a paycheck, and not for a paycheck. Anyways, Sweden. I’ll write more about that later I guess? Come back soon! I got sidetracked being equally lazy as I am hateful. –June 12, 2025
Birthdays
I was born on Friday, July 13, 2001. It was a humid summer morning– my dad driving the now ‘family‘s Dodge Caravan to the hospital; Filter’s Take A Picture stuck looping on the radio. I was born premature and the doctors instructed my parents to put me in the crazy bubble contraption for a bit after I was born. It seems like everything was conveniently inconvenient the day of. Now, about a month until my 24th birthday, it still feels the same. Friends thousands of miles apart, divorced parents who are amicable, sure– but hard to peel away from their new partners, new stepkids, new lives…; a lucky, but not expendable amount of money from my job. The firstborn daughter. The cardinal sign. The ‘please surprise me but also I will kill myself from the lack of control’ special. Is it better to not celebrate at all? To succumb to a mediocre day– well, after all– celebrating the day your mother squeezed you out might be the most selfish, jaded, and embarrassing thing someone could do. Yet, it’s so normal: coming from this unbegotten, rotten hole in everyone’s chest that screams, “Pay attention to me, love me, understand me, show me you’re happy I was born”. -June 9, 2025
Water Sign
I’ve never felt cleaner than when I bathe in Amy’s bathtub. It’s become customary– a shared ritual that we partake in whenever I visit her house. Water running from the spigot: sit in the tub, bend over yourself to wash your hair. It’s much easier to take a shower… more time efficient, at least. She always bathes this way after a day where she cannot be bothered to stand any longer.
Amy’s my best friend. She’s lived in the same house her entire life. When we met, she was 15, I was 13, she (always been my lucky number) and it was instantaneous sleepovers at her house.
“If you don’t turn the shower on, you can sit and have a shower sitting down; it’s so much better”, she yells over the water, stretching her body across the acrylic ledge. It stuck– but I only do this bathing positioning at her house. Ten years later– here I am– curled up in her tub, splashing myself over with the running water. She sits on the floor, paints her nails, inspects her toes, picks her skin. We switch. There’s always too much to talk about to sacrifice the thirty minutes of time we would spend in privacy.
I live in an old city. The bathtubs have history. All walks of life have bathed there. Amy’s bathtub has only seen maybe five, maybe six nether-regions in its use. She herself, her older sisters, me, and whoever else lived in that home before Mr. and Mrs. Dixon bought it sometime around 1998. I moved around a lot growing up. Her home became consistent, a place that wouldn’t change, a place that had already been settled. It’s non-compromised. It’s clean. It’s rare; and almost holy. It is a sacred space, tiled white, painted hot pink, riddled with lotions, nice shampoos, secrets, gossips, naked belly-laughs, and the evidence of time that has, and will continue, to pass.
She never thought any of this a ritual. It was all normal to her. Second nature, even, like it had been taught to her when she was very young. I never said anything about it– I just followed suit. Slowly, it became a checkpoint in my life. As long as I have this, continually, I’m on the right track. Things keep happening, coming, going, ending, beginning– but I have Amy– she’s right here– watching me shave my armpits in the same spot we have been for eleven years. If I keep coming back to this space, this clean, safe, suburban bathroom, it can’t ever be too far, too bad, too evil. I’ve become this sort-of… prodigal bather.
Amy’s getting married soon. She just got engaged. I know what this means. I knew the day would come. I’m not going to be dramatic and flip out over a bathtub. That would be preposterous. It was never really about the bathtub, right? I know these bathroom moments will continue in her new life, her new home. After all, her husband-to-be has been in our lives for just as long as we’ve been bathing this way. It’s about returning home– wherever that is.
It’s weird how these awkward intricacies shape who you become. It’s weird what you decide the home you to come home to. Who is a house, who is a home, and who wants you to return to them, again and again.
To be honest, Amy is the bathtub. She’s got this giant smile that looks like she’s never cried a day in her life. She’s pure, she’s kind, she’s consistent. Her friendship is cleansing. She hasn’t changed her role in my life even once. She does not waver. She’s open to the unconventional. I do not worry about my nakedness. I do not worry about the ugly. She doesn’t care that it is there, in the first place.
The best part about this story is how confident I am that this will never change. Just as I will always trust her bathroom to hold, cleanse, and guide me through the odd and the unknown: I trust my Amy to do the same, no matter where we are. Even as our lives change, the essence of the moments we’ve shared remain. And no matter how far I go, the bathtub, still, a vessel for our bond, a beacon that some connections transcend place and time. -January 8, 2025
Cecilia Tuttle 