Me

So I’m me. TVS is what is says on the tin. Teresa Van Santāna. That’s me. Or just T, if you like.

These storms keep rolling in, destroying my head. Those are arc words and you will see them a lot if you’re paying attention. Do you know what they mean?

I work in the secrets trade, and the word for people who do what I do is secretist. Well, in the Thirty-Second Century, I do. The 32C. Here in 2020-whatever, I’m just … a writer, I guess. The hologram of a writer? I dunno. If you figure it out, tell me so I can sleep better.

When I was young, I was in a band. I was the singer. Somehow that’s still a part of me, even though it doesn’t show quite like it used to. Nothing makes people swoon like being in a band. I guess I’m trying to make you swoon a little. Don’t hold it against me, m'kay?

I used to be depressed, and it nearly killed me. Then, I was anxious, and it imprisoned me. I’ve been free for awhile now, and somehow have managed to build a life. I guess we all did, those of us who made it out alive.

I like clothes, but I can’t ever make shit come together the way I want. It’s hella frush.

Someone told me once—well, a couple someones, actually, at least one of whom might be reading this—that I often write in an annoying dialect. Sum’n like dis, tho, and den wha’. Like that. I’d say sorry for that, but. It’s where I’m from. A writer writes how people actually talk, not the way they’re supposed to talk. Again, that’s my take. Don’t like it? Well …

I paint. I write. I’m what you’d call trans. I’m, like, forty-something.

I dunno what else to tell you. That’s me.

Want to know something else? Just ask.

Xoxo,

T