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 experienced my anger, just like a chameleon. And as an observer, I know you’ve seen these eyes move like theirs, especially during gray sweatpant season.

There’s the part of me impressing corporate leaders 9 to 5, and the another that’s spending Friday afternoon at a museum or cinema. The Darry who writes, and the Darry so ditzy, it’s giving a little Miss Crawly from Sing. And of course, there’s the part of me who ends up in a bush at 2 AM in Downtown Orlando, Messica.

Subscribe now

It’s all me. Personalities, versions, alter egos, whatever you want to call them. They’re all coexisting in my world. But after Saturday night left me with battle scars, an urgent care visit, and a broken door frame, I couldn’t help but wonder…

Despite coexisting, why were these parts of me barely ever in the same room? Do people only ever meet one version of me?

The Virgo Look

Gabriel, who lives in the apartment across from me, knocked on my door Sunday afternoon. I could smell food, so he was probably visiting to catch up on weekend shenanigans and watch this week’s episode of Drag Race.

He almost dropped the burgers 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 probably giving ‘Crackhead in Wonderland’ about to fall into the same rabbit hole. So I decide Apple Care can find it.

And so I keep sitting pretty, for longer than I’d like to admit, knowing it was the smart thing to do. I’m just a block away, so they’ll find me! I’ll see that car in a few.

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).

Subscribe now

The NYC Way

Vivian is a friend from New York who happened to be in town. On Tuesday, I invite 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 Darry.’

I’m known as Madonna in New York, so she knew exactly what I meant. Being 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. And maybe there’s a better metaphor out there, but it makes sense. 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 to only share a certain “layer” of ourselves to others, which can become a sort of 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. And there’s never any pressure because Messica’s also down for Gringos Locos too. It’s Heather Gay Good Time Girl, hold the Heather.

Share

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 burgers, 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.”

Subscribe now

On a date, you’ll listen to me advocating to support local, with a Whole Foods Honey Vanilla latte on hand. Later that week, you send me a calendar invite to the farmer’s market. Declined. 9 am? You better be joking.

Today I got a brunch invite from my good friend, Nick from Brickell. Ravello at the Four Seasons, 9 am. Accepted. He knows me, so I know the reservation is actually for 11.

Cool Girl

Last year, I was Orlando’s hot new go-go dancer. All smiles, fat ass, good energy, surrounded by my fellow dancers who are just as hot. Friends came to support, strangers explored the boy behind the smile, and money danced in the air with me.

Dancing was the expression I didn’t know I needed.

Gone Girl

October brought the first weekend of the year not spent twerking around floating money and admirers. Darry wasn't seen on the box again, and the rest of October was spent experimenting with gigs in Tampa (not bad).

My family moved to North Carolina and although they offered to start this new chapter with them, Darry declined.

Only one left now.

Perdida

Grandma, ¿te sientes perdida allá? Cuando abres la ventana, ¿ves una vida que dejaste atrás en Orlando?

Three Months Gone

My days continue filled with overtime. I find joy in Housewives and picking out wild-caught seafood at Whole Foods. I decide to treat myself to the Hampton Social. A chain, sure, but still my go-to for a casual meal and spicy skinny margs. The manager asks why Grandma wasn't with me.

I got the same question earlier today from my girls at Luxe Sugar Wax. When I went to the library to return the last of her books, the staff also asked where she’d gone. My barber, Nikky Blades, already knew. But Mars Von Blades was puzzled, and sniffed around the last spot she was in.

I was scared to go anywhere else we existed.

The Missing Persons Case

It’s become a habit to transform into a phantom every so often. Sometimes I ghost a person, or a group. Other times, I disappear completely.

After all the unanswered messages, I wonder if people assume I find ghosting an art form too.

Nowadays I set the expectation. I know you want to hang out, and we can plan something, but I’m a workaholic. I’m not a workaholic, and I’m not a good texter! But I’ll see them around. On Instagram.

Sometimes it’s shame beating me into a corner I can’t escape. Usually the case for people I love very much, but convinced they’d never believe me if I’d tell them. Jacob and Román, Aurelia S., Aurelia C., Tyonna. And there’s more, of course.

Funny because Aurelia S. and I started hanging out again during the holiday season. Dinner two weekends in a row, so of course I was scared the cycle would begin again. She visited me on Christmas, knowing this was my first Christmas without family. It’s been a couple months now, and the psychological battle to text back is in real time.

But sometimes disappearing isn’t pain, but instead reassurance. Time passes and you understand, that wasn’t for me. Or, I needed this. I’ve become kinder to myself, more respectful, more trusting.

And this most recent disappearance embodied exactly that. Less money, but more time. As I learn vulnerability in relationships, my family bond is stronger than ever. I’m reconsidering things with this guy, this… sugarboy (more on that soon 👀). Past passions are rekindled, so I’ve sacrificed a couple happy hours.

Some people try to take off the sheet and uncover whatever they think is underneath. But others do understand, and see the transparent anatomy of a ghost.

The Autopsy of Missing Persons

Maybe they’re really gone, or just visiting the other side. They can come back, and if they do, they may be a different person. Some memories are forever, some forgotten. And in this ghost story, there will always be both pain and reassurance.

Four Months Gone

After a busy holiday season, I reach back out to dance again. New management, finally enforcing the leather bar aesthetic. But I’m 10 pounds too light and it needs to be in muscle, they said.

I’ll be back enjoying the club again, being a meatball. To some, I’ll always be a ghost. I’ve made peace with that.

Five Months Gone

My grandfather passed away, suddenly but expectedly. On the way to my family, I watched my comfort film, Gone Girl.

Home

I’d like to think I’m a possessed Sigourney Weaver from Ghostbusters, for drama. But if you’ve known me long enough, you know I’m a hitchhiking ghost from Haunted Mansion. I don’t haunt, I do the opposite. I’m a silly, messy ghost, laughing in your rearview mirror.

Subscribe now