She Wrote About Fucking and It Was Good

Sara’s old blog, SeptemberRave, did something rare: it was actually filthy and actually emotional, and those two things made each other better. She’d look straight at you through the screen—right into the empty skull—and write about vomiting, fucking, love, friendship, using the foulest words the internet had available, and somehow arrive somewhere poetic. It wasn’t shock value. It was clarity of a specific, uncommon kind.

She’s done with it now. Moving on to something called dragstripGirl—music, design, the web, the usual territory of the pivoting blogger. Broader interests, cleaner edges, more shareable content. I get it. People change. Formats shift. Staying in one mode forever is its own kind of death.

Still. I miss what she was doing. That intersection of filth and genuine feeling is hard to find and harder to sustain, and when someone pulls it off it tends to vanish the moment they realize what they have. The work that comes from not trying is always the work you can’t recover once you start trying.

We were supposed to go to some Vimeo party at an old public pool in Wedding last night—Sara’s Australian roommate was going—but it sounded profoundly boring and we didn’t. Stayed in instead with beer and Scrubs, which turned out to be exactly the right call. The party was, by all accounts, exactly as boring as it sounded. Some nights the couch wins.