By Holly A. Phillips


In blog class!


In class…


Rosie Assoulin Fall 2014 *Dressed



BIG NEWS! Queer Eye Reunion announced. Coming back to Bravo this October. #queereye #freakingout #fab5


BIG NEWS! Queer Eye Reunion announced. Coming back to Bravo this October. #queereye #freakingout #fab5


We’re in class!

Blog Class

Taking blog class. 

Things that terrify me

I keep a list of things

That terrify me

Send a cringe 

Throughout my bones

Things you’re scared of, too

Things I’ve grown to hate by the day

I hate disguises 

Costumes that hide the real you

The scene in Psycho

Sending blood down the drain

Eyes in my window payne

Foot steps in a parking garage

Mirrors give me the creeps

The pitch black does too

I hate answering the door

And going to the bank

And sometimes grocery shopping

I’m scared of guns

Airplanes make me nervous

Mice, spiders, the creepy crawleys 

Even the trunk of my car gives my stomach a knot

I lose sleep over

The soundtrack to Jason

The wet sponge in the office sink

The sogginess of biscuits and gravy

I’m terrified

Of silly things 

I don’t know if fear is overtaking me

Or if I am just trying 

To build a fortress 


Wish I would have stayed 

In bed in the warm darkness

In my mind it rains 

Things you should’ve said (Part 2)

I’ve already written you this letter

Searched my heart for the words

To make you understand 

What it feels like to be had by you

But when I shared my letter

The consensus was as such

Not enough “Mother Fuckers”

Needed more “Piece of Shit”

Where did my anger hide? 

Perhaps it built itself strong

Growing from glass to brick

Adding stilts around my heart to

Ready for the hurricane

Prepping for the blow

The “Mother Fuckers” drowned

Themselves in my sorrow

The “Pieces of Shit” 

Turned into fragments of sorrow 

Knowing I am not the only one you 

Attempted to shatter

Mother Fucker, 

I can’t let you build 

A house of hate inside of me

I’ve spent hours

Rifling through the

Pieces of shit

You piece of shit

I need peace

Of mind

Why can’t you give it to me

Mother fucker, 

Admit your wrongs

Stop hiding

Quit pretending

Mother fucker, 

Take my original advice

Pretend I’m dead 

And oh, 

Mother fucker, 

Nice seersucker suit.


I like my coffee

Black like the midnight sky 

Jolting my eyes wide 

California Street

The first house I remember

Was on a street called California

Although it was nowhere near 

The West coast

I remember it as a house

Too big for the 3 of us

Every door downstairs

Opened to create a circle

A racetrack for my tricycle 

My bedroom window

Let creatures of the night inside

Giving my cat something to dance to

The black bat

Died by way of ‘Dad with broom’

The yards were huge

With porches in the front and back

My dad cut the grass with a 

Manual mower

Our house was a rock toss

Away from the county library

A few skips down

From a roofing company


Moving day came

To a street called DeSoto

It was smaller, newer

Months went by

And our old house was in the paper

Flames had licked its curtains

Starting in our old empty room

It never looked the same

But I don’t know if it was the flames

Or the ashes. 

Dear straight people, by Denise Frohman 

When I grow up

I used to think 

I wanted to work in an office

On a floor with a long elevator ride

I’d wear a fitted black suit

Have an assistant

My own office

When I got an office

I decorated it like a bedroom

I am a creative

In a box of borings

I don’t wear suits

I wish I could wear jeans

I don’t know if I ever want to wear a suit

Or report to an office

Too many rules

Trying to dampen my creative flow

Don’t want to be like them

Lose my spirit

In a hallway of lunch hours

And meetings

And water cooler gossip


To me 

Is sitting at my dining table

Typing away on my laptop

Maybe I’ll be a stay at home mom

Or just a stay at home writer

Fried Pork

The same summer

I heard my first country song

Was the same summer

I worked two jobs

One at Grab and Go

I was a carhop

Slinging orange sodas

And fried pork tenderloins

I wore my hair in pigtails

Because I made more tips

I also worked behind the counter

at a frozen custard shop

I wore a blue apron

And a matching cap 

My boss at the drive-in

Was cheating on his wife

With another employee

He made the chili for the hot dogs

In a square metal pan

We only listened to country music

My boyfriend that summer

Was a small town baseball player

Who drank beers in the shed in his backyard

He also

Only listened to country music

Driving his pickup down the curvy roads

I don’t remember a day off

But I sometimes find myself

Wishing I could 

Serve fried foods

And custard

Once more