Let's Remained Alarmed

Dear Meow Townies, thank you for your patience. I have been writing a book! A whole damn book for the past year and that longer project demands my focus. And then I discovered that I was locked out of my Substack for a few months. I was told there was no account called “Meow Town.” But they were wrong. Here I am, kittens. Meow meow meow.

I’ve missed writing here and have been wanting to talk to you, but it’s hard to know where to begin. The fascist rape carnival that is currently occupying the White House (I refuse to say his name or his title) provides endless opportunities for quick rants and hot takes, but you know, and I know, we need something much deeper and more thorough if we are to repair and rebuild our country from this slop.

My goal is to remain pissed off, remain disgusted and to act accordingly. I also want to inject more Queer chaos into the mix of creative, innovative protest happening in many cities in the face of the pathetic violence and rapaciousness in this administration. The weak fascists want trans people, immigrants, queers, women, femmes and allies to shut up, so let’s get louder. Let’s get weirder. Let’s Go.

I don’t know exactly where to begin. So I will begin here: The smells of my childhood were built by the Epstein class. Sugar lip smackers and checkered bikinis. Pink and Red striped Victoria Secret ads with impossibly thin women drenched in oil. The slime of it all. I must have been 17 or 18 when I first bought Honey Dust talcum powder meant to be licked off. Honey dust was a product at the lingerie store where I was a live mannequin, which meant I posed in lace teddies, pretending to be a frozen doll for passersby at my local mall. The owner of the store didn’t pay me, but instead gave me store credit for my work. I’m not suggesting I was trafficked or anything like that. What I’m implying is that exploitation of young femme bodies was not just a quirk of the 80s. It was completely normalized and it was everywhere you looked.

Around that same time, I paid a stranger for modeling classes with the money I made cleaning houses. The woman showed us how to walk a runway and pose with one hand on your hip, which is actually much harder than you might think. Not only was I bad at it, but even if I wanted to seriously try, I’d have to become a totally different person who was taller with skinny limbs.

Even then, even there, in my shitty small town in Northern California, the Epstein Class ripples were practically unavoidable. They were felt in the vague promises of a modeling contract just out of reach. It makes me sick when I think about the young women and teenage girls that were manipulated, abused and used by Epstein and his pedi pals.

Unthinkable, Unbearable. These are words batted around every day about the abuse and coercion that the victims faced. And now, decades later, they are fighting for justice while emails are mostly redacted. Only a murky trickling of photos and emails have been released to the public while the current fascist regime attempts to pour honey dust on the lens and pull your attention elsewhere. Dust them back.

We are talking about monstrous exploitation of women and girls over decades and calculated cruelty at the hands of Epstein and his circle of ghouls. Resist the constant toying with your attention. The trick is to remain alarmed. Stay put. Remain steadfast and we will dismantle the current regime because what is happening now is unthinkable, unbearable and horrifying.

Know your role. Are you an artist, a queer activist, a writer, a nurse, an educator, a witch, a graphic designer? Find a way to reject the twisted narrative and get louder. We desperately need dissenting voices right now. We need voices that articulate an unwavering support of trans people and immigrants. Let’s yell together.

It’s 2026. Time to rage, silly.