I think I’m a chameleon not only because I can adapt, but because sometimes you can tell I can’t. You’ve definitely seen red if you’ve ever been on the receiving end of my anger.

There’s the part of me impressing corporate leaders 9 to 5, and another spending Friday afternoon at a museum or cinema. The Darry who writes, and the Darry who’s ditzy. The Darry who ends up in a bush at 2 AM in Downtown Orlando, Messica.

It’s all me. Personalities, versions, alter egos, whatever you want to call them, all coexisting in my world. But Saturday night left me with battle scars, an urgent care visit, and a broken door frame. I couldn’t help but wonder why these parts of me were never in the same room.

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The Virgo Look

Gabriel, who lives in the apartment across from me, knocked on my door Sunday afternoon. He was probably visiting to catch up on weekend shenanigans over this week’s episode of Drag Race.

He almost dropped the champagne bottle when he saw my face.

“Who are we beating up?”

I gave him the rundown of my Saturday night.

“Give me your phone. I’m blocking them right now.”

“No! You can’t block him, he’s one of my best friends!”

He gave me a look only a virgo could give. “You’re going to have to reconsider what a friend is.”

I’m Ditzy fucking Darry, of course I made it home.

Our last stop for the night was Anthem, Orlando’s newest gay club, and it was the most fun I’ve had here so far. Towards the end of the night my friends Juniper and Levi were getting escorted out by security, interrupting a flirtatious conversation I was having with a cute guy visiting from Boston. I followed them out because we arrived together, so we leave together. Right?

When I got outside, everyone was gone. I walk towards the parking lot, but turn on Robinson a block too soon.

With nobody in sight, I decide to stay put because I wasn’t about to have some rom-com moment where we miss each other by walking opposite sides of the block. So I sit pretty in the brightest, most visible part of the street: the public charging lot for electric cars.

And then, my phone slips out of my hand and into a bush.

I saw exactly where it fell, but there must’ve been some type of rabbit hole it dropped into because I couldn’t find it. So here I am: on all fours, intoxicated, realizing humans can have complicated relationships with partners, parents, and apparently, bushes.

I get self-conscious. I’m probably giving ‘Crackhead in Wonderland’ about to fall into the same rabbit hole. So I decide Find My will handle it later.

And so I keep sitting pretty, for longer than I’d like to admit, knowing it was the smart thing to do. They’ll find me, I’m only a block away…

No car. No Juniper. No Levi. Not even someone to charge their Tesla.

It’s fine, I’ll walk. Body tea, mental GPS on, independent woman playlist on my invisible AirPods.

Within the first few steps, I trip over the curb and fall into another bush. At this point, I think my girl Tia is sending me signs I’m overdue for my Brazilian.

I walked from Downtown to the Hourglass District. Alone. Feeling like Sydney fucking Prescott.

Final Girl Realness

I’m staring at myself in the mirror and I look like a final girl after the credits roll. My makeup is gone. A cheek now adorned with a scrape. Not what I meant when I said I needed new blush.

No phone, no keys. I had to break into my apartment to get in. I’ll fix the doorframe before I move out (or the next inspection).

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The NYC Way

I spent Monday pretending it didn’t happen, but by Tuesday I was ready to talk about it. Vivian is a friend from New York who happened to be in town. I invited her to Tamale Co, Hourglass District’s Mexican street food staple.

“Mad fucked up. It don’t matter if y’all beefing, you being a whole mess—they needed to find you.”

She started to tell me about a night out with one of her own girls. On the way home from the club, her friend jumped out of their uber at a red light. Vivian followed, but couldn’t keep up.

“That sobered me up real quick, but I’m not leaving a female out there alone. I told the driver to take me to whatever bar was still open and deadass, she was there. I beat her ass and dragged her back to 67th to find my bracelet. We ain’t cool no more, but I wasn’t gonna leave her. You just don’t do that. Not how I move.”

I asked Vivian if she thought this happened because ‘I’m Madonna,’ what I’m known as in New York. The main character of adventures that become memorable tales people ask me to share again and again.

She laughed. “It’s giving Am I the Drama?” Now she was holding my hands. “I don’t see you doing anything that makes this okay. Am I surprised? No. I’ll be surprised when you get somebody pregnant, but we’ve partied before. You said it yourself, you’re a meatball.”

Onion Theory

Shrek was right about the onions. It’s not the most glamorous metaphor, but it’s honest. Layers.

Different situations get different layers, and most people never get past the first layer they see. Arguably, they don’t need to. Some of us are careful not to peel away too much of ourselves when sharing with others, which can become an agreement we don’t realize we’re making.

Messica is great for a fun night. She makes you feel warm, gets you on the floor (no JLO), knows where the after and after-after party is. Messica is who they signed up for—just not who they show up for.

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I spent the rest of the weekend trying to be fair about it. They got kicked out, so there was chaos, maybe confusion? I’m an adult and people can’t always account for everyone when a night falls apart.

But then I think about Gabriel almost dropping our champagne, ready to fight. Vivian chasing her friend on 67th at 4 AM. Neither of them needed to peel more layers to justify making sure their friend is safe and no one is left behind.

The difference wasn’t as symbolic as I was trying to make it be.

What Mom Thinks

“It’s not about being independent or knowing your way home. It’s about loyalty.”

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The equation for how long he’d been stuck inside was in the amount of dandruff in his mulberry silk pillowcase.

He reaches for his phone. New text from Chloe. Loves her so much—can’t wait to see her again! You can see, in his eyes, he has a response. But it’s either too much or too little thoughts that hold him back and he sets his phone back down.

Welcome to my life. Unapologetically particular and secretly emotional. Maybe mildly materialistic. Currently mildly depressed.

Everything in my apartment is curated to be the perfect aesthetic sanctuary. So naturally, I blamed my mood on the walls I couldn’t paint. A dark beige decorated with countless holes that were concealed sloppily by previous tenants.

But creating my own Pottery Barn catalog really does help me…

And I know how to prioritize! I settled for off brand artificial candles and faux oak coffee tables from Amazon. My LED mask was bought with my FSA and sometimes perfume from TJ Maxx is fine!

But the obsession with my space, control of my time, and strategy of my appearance give me comfort everywhere except in my head.

I go to therapy every week, limited alcohol (down to 3 bottles of tequila a week!). Weed is difficult and snorting got boring. I’ll let depression bend my libido for a week or two, but I’m not handing my sex life over to antidepressants.

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I saw him in the corner. Standing in front of my bookshelf like he belonged there, unbothered as always, with a smile. My grandpa.

“What would you do?” I ask.

I already knew his answer, but the way he’d say it brings me comfort.

“Just eat.”

He doesn’t sound like an annoyed parent or concerned friend. He doesn't sound like that acquaintance that swears the solution is helpful (self help books), or the doctor who’s convincing you this version of generic Ozempic doesn’t have side effects.

He actually sounds a little like I would. Neutral, maybe not affectionate. Soft eyes and a warm smile. I’ll admit he’s much less dramatic than I am.

Sometimes he’ll suggest a John Wayne Western the same way I’d suggest a Hitchcock thriller. We’d usually settle on The Brady Bunch or Dick Van Dyke.

I walk to the fridge and I can feel his eyes rolling. Organic berries, pre-seasoned sockeye, and yogurt I got because the cow on the logo is cute (and it’s organic).

“¿Que carajo es esto? Let’s get a burger! Triple with extra fries! Juice running down our chins like you’d say as a kid.”

Last week I went to Seito Sushi in Doctor Phillips. Grandpa didn’t join, but I remember giving myself 10 seconds to fantasize about the Five Guys next door. I could throw away 6 years of this organic, no red meat cuisine to get a double with cheese, cajun fries, and a milkshake. But I’d want to bring him anyway.

Sometimes he does join my Whole Foods runs. He’ll say something like, “Puñeta, just get the chips! They’re 2 for 5,” or “Mira, your wild-caught fish has just as much plastic as the other ones.” But discipline, right?

Back in my beige confinement, a window appears (metaphorically of course). A small burst of motivation to take and get to the end credits of this 2 week episode. And I take it, hoping the timeframe isn’t as short as the last few.

I tell my grandpa to get ready and we get adequately cute in what I imagine as a superhero montage.

I’m, of course, in all black. A very Topman x Abercrombie fit accessorized with golden Swarovski and YSL shades. My face is beat with Dior and body misted with vanilla santal.

My grandpa was feeling super himself, wearing his blue outfit from the 2025 summer runway collection for Walmart. I know he’s excited because he’s wearing his slides with socks on. I can see him armed with Bimbo cookies in his pockets.

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I call my driver, Jean. Round trip to El Mesón. And not just any Mesón, but the last one grandpa and I went to (40 minutes away). Discipline, right?

We go through the drive thru and I got fries for all of us, coffee for grandpa and Jean.

“Y’know, I get crazy requests all the time, but this might take the cake! We probably passed by two of these… and don’t you kids use Postmates for everything?”

I laugh, “I actually came here because this was the last Mesón my grandfather and I went to. It was his favorite around here!”

Jean sips his coffee. I can tell he likes it.

“I guess I felt like doing something special today… My grandpa passed last month, but I feel like he’s been around me more. I’m not calling myself a ghost whisperer, but I think he’s just around. Maybe doesn’t want me to feel so bad for not visiting as often.”

“I’m sure he doesn’t, I’m sorry.” Jean already knew I only ever needed tissues for the times I was doing makeup in his car, but he quietly set a tissue box on the console.

“I mean—I haven’t seen him in, like, 4 years? Maybe more. But I know he understands. He always did. He was the only man in my life that wouldn’t tell me life was about getting bitches and fighting. When he’d talk about my mom, his wife, any mention of crazy would be pure lighthearted funny that I guess no other father or husband in my family was good at. Even with my grandma, who continues to talk shit, he’d just tease and say she’s gonna go crazy when they end up in the same nursing home.”

I could see Jean’s expression in the rearview. Confused because he knows I adore my grandma too, and have mentioned her often the past couple months.

“And I’m not mad or resentful—all of these other people have their great traits too. My grandma can be kind, but the thing is I understand her. I’ve learned how to be around her. I’ve learned to love and care without getting hurt. I understand there’s so many point of views and so many battles in just one person’s head. I really do think my grandpa and I were similar in that way. We don’t judge.”

Jean made a face. “Well Darius...”

“Okay, yes, maybe not exactly the same. I’m a shady bitch, but if someone thinks I’m judgmental, it’s on them.”

He laughed.

“I just hope if I have kids in my life, they can remember me the way I remember my grandpa. He’s the only—truly, the only adult in my life that didn’t try to change, train, or adjust me. It was like, I was good enough. No expectations, no goals, no darkness. He didn’t want me to be like him, but he knew I’d watch John Wayne with him because Scooby Doo mentioned John Wayne a lot.

And he knew I loved eating. I’m the ‘comelón’ in the family.

I’ve been dep—working a lot. And I know if he was here, he’d just tell me to take a break and just eat. He understands, he gets it.”

“Is that why you haven’t touched your fries? Are you waiting to get home to eat them?”

“Yeah.”

Jean smiled, a sort of longing was present on his face. “He understands that too.”