She writes about the conversations she has with her gynecologist while his head is between her thighs. She writes about what having an abortion alone felt like because her boyfriend wouldn’t sell his guitar to buy a plane ticket. She writes about the purple flesh of her nipple and pleasure so loud that the world must sigh and shut its blinds—for it cannot taste the desire it has not lived. She writes when grief takes her down to the white tile floor of her kitchen and keeps her there all night. She writes how the brown of an espresso smells in white sheets brought by an Italian who played her legs like a harp all night. She writes her disdain for the commercialization of spiritualism and in the same breath demands that people heed their gut before their guru. She writes how the numbness of grief feels the Monday morning after a suicide. She writes of surfing naked in broad daylight—what freedom tastes like, what dust feels like hitting the back of her legs in the muggy heat of May as she tears through the jungle with the teeth of her heart. She writes about the yellow of fireflies, the bitterness of kicking horse coffee in a blue tin cup, and the taste of air cleaned by hemlocks. She writes of Austin, where cowboys walk in boots that echo on sidewalks stained with love. She writes about her disdain for marriage, politics, pensions, the military, and university—she questions everything and writes the truths we are too afraid to tell ourselves. She doesn’t find her radical vulnerability brave, she finds it common sense—like breathing.