I Used to Say I Was Magical

I used to tell people I was magical. Somewhere in the last few years, I lost that word.

This episode starts with a twinge I never had a name for — until Queer Eye gave me one — and a meditation practice that's been quietly taking apart a wall I didn't know I'd built. It moves through a youth group memory I can still see clearly: a sermon about Titanic, a poop-in-the-brownies analogy, and the exact moment they filed a beautiful, aching love story under sinful.

From there it goes into alchemy — actual historical alchemy, not the candle-label kind — and the idea that everything starts whole, then splits into pieces, and only becomes something new once the pieces come back together. I talk about Existential Kink by Carolyn Elliott, Tantra, and what I think I got wrong even in the middle of recording this: that sexuality was never asking for a room of its own. It was asking to run through all of it.

This one gets into what I do with a recurring frustration I still can't fully name, why "lipstick on a pig" is the most honest phrase I have for how I used to cope, and why I think arousal can be a tool for processing the hard stuff instead of a reward for surviving it.

There isn't a floor plan. There's one room. I've just spent a long time furnishing it like it had walls.