True courage is in vulnerability

On repression, intimidation, triggers, and why I'm scared my launch will flop

Bebe Montoya has been writing on her instagram lately about making art and being in public when you are in the crazy place. And about how making art, and following your dreams, is very definitely going to put you in the crazy place from time to time, all on its own. Because there is no way to follow your dreams and be as fucking vulnerable as public creative work requires you to be without activating all sorts of parts of yourself who are in so much pain and desperately want to be loved. I’m so grateful to Bebe for her courageous practice of public vulnerability and removing the third wall from the experience of being an artist. The expectation that artists be cool, collected bad bitches at all times pours gasoline on the fire of the already extremely volatile experience of being TRIGGERED BY YOUR OWN CREATIVE PRACTICE. I don’t know why I put that in all caps. It just felt right.

The year 2024 was an underworld journey for me. I kept telling everyone, when I emerged from the weed smoke and somatic processing of incest trauma, that I was on an underworld journey. My friend Kelsey laughed and said not everyone understands what I mean when I say that. I laughed. Isn’t it obvious? Don’t we all make trips to the underworld? Some longer than others? I kept waiting to be completely and firmly out of the underworld to write my exposé on that experience and what I learned from it. I went to Barcelona and Toulouse as my grand exit from the underworld. I reemerged on the surface in a Toulouse squat and a Barcelona bookstore, to tell the tale of what I learned down there about surviving incest, about breaking the spell of unreality and ending cycles of generational violence, about what it takes to be brave.

Then I came back to Montreal and decided it was time to return to my life, and I did, mostly. I stopped smoking weed and resumed my journey toward motherhood. I started to see more people and do more things. I was immediately confronted with another challenge, another lesson, another task. This one was about writing. It was about claiming my legitimacy as a writer. It was about refusing to allow my work to be constantly dismissed because I am an underground writer and because I’m cancelled and scapegoated and because so many people would rather burn me at the stake than ask themselves why my work makes them so uncomfortable. To be honest, I was very tired from my almost year long underworld journey and I didn’t feel ready for another lesson, let alone a battle, but the gods have their own timing and it is my job to do the work they set before me.

As part of this work of claiming my place in the world of literature, I need to claim my place in the literary, creative, and leftist worlds of Montreal, the city I call home. While I was greeted with such warm welcome in Barcelona and Toulouse, and flooded with dms asking me to visit so many other cities internationally, I am treated with a lot of coldness in Montreal. My cancellation is stronger and stickier here. And also, the classic love-hate relationship with successful local writers/artists has swung very hard to the hate side for me. A lot of people in this city do not want to acknowledge my existence or the fact that my work is important internationally. Through a mix of ignoring me and attacking me, the hope is that I’ll fold and disappear.

I have not fought very hard for my place in Montreal. I have, largely, backed down. Yes I know, I’m very strong and brave etc. I’m also severely traumatized, through a huge amount of physical and sexual violence and intentional cruelty and dehumanization. My nervous system is absolutely fried from the life I’ve lived, and I work very hard on my healing every day. It is very difficult to face down the intense hatred that I am treated with by many people. It is very difficult to enter into social, political, and literary spaces and to not know who there is actively spreading lies about me, and if anyone there has plans to physically attack me. I fear violence. I fear dehumanization and contempt. I fear ridicule. I fear the weird flipping of reality where I am called an “abuse apologist” by people who are abusing me and trying to prevent me from doing my work which is primarily about being a survivor and ending cycles of violence.

In the last couple years I have begun to be more brave in my home city after years of lying low. SEIZE Concordia had me teach on their curriculum which was a nice way to break the ice because I felt protected by them. Becca Love was brave enough to let me table at their Slut Market and withstood the complaints that my very presence there made people “unsafe” somehow. Then last fall SEIZE hosted a public discussion on cancel culture between me, Jay, and Kai Cheng Thom which was well attended. We received a semi hostile question during the Q and A period which positioned me and Jay as the bad guys of anti cancel culture discourse and Kai Cheng as one of the good guys, but none of our fears of disruption or attack came to fruition. Then, because the original Anarchist Bookfair Collective that had been icing me out post cancellation imploded due to their own internal cancellation drama, the new collective let me table. I braved going into the heart of the beast, anarchist Montreal, and was, unsurprisingly, attacked: a person dressed in black bloc poured coffee all over my zines and quickly ran away without saying anything.

I’ve written about it so many times but I can’t emphasize it enough: it is insanely wrong to physically intimidate a 5’1” tiny woman with c-ptsd who is a survivor of severe repetitive physical violence and stalking because you take issue with some of her political ideas or you don’t like her due to rumours you’ve heard about her. It is so FUCKING WRONG and it is not justice, it is not “antifa,” it is not radical, it’s not “pro survivor.” It’s just literally abusive and wrong. I can say that a million times and so many people will continue to justify this violence against me. The Constellation Collective who put on the fair ignored my multiple requests that they please say that it is not acceptable to physically intimidate tablers at the fair. In their cowardly silence they co-sign the violence against me.

I could write and write and write about why it is wrong to treat me with such violence, but all that writing and courage does not help my terrified nervous system. It is so fucking physically damaging for me to be treated this way. I have two autoimmune conditions, one of them terrifying and very serious, and I know that the stress and fear of being treated like this directly contributes to my physical illness. And yet, I have a job to do in this lifetime. It’s called writing. And I’m not going to stop.

So, having returned to Montreal from my mini European tour, having been confronted by the gods with my next task which is to claim my legitimacy as a writer, which includes claiming my place in this city, I decided to have a Montreal launch of The Realm of Unreality: An Incest Memoir in Essays. This is the zine which collects the writing I did on incest, and related topics, during my underworld journey. It is the writing my mother threatened to sue me over. It is writing that incest survivors have written to me about over and over again, thanking me in a way that only other incest survivors can understand. It is writing that is a key in the lock of the realm of unreality. It is important. It is life saving. It is some of the hardest work I have ever done. And it deserves to be recognized and celebrated, not just in Europe, but here in my home city of Montreal.

It was difficult for me to find a venue for this launch. I was getting a lot of silence in response to my requests and it was impossible for me to know if this silence represented the normal disorganization of indie spaces, or if the silence was a cowardly way of telling me I am not welcome. This is annoying and difficult but the way it lands in my nervous system is so much more than that. It presses the buttons of me returning to my car after a successful event to find my tires slashed and shit poured in my air vents and later seeing people bragging about it on twitter. It presses the buttons of me feeling anxious for weeks before the anarchist fair in Montreal only to have exactly what I was afraid of happening to me happen. And these experiences press older buttons: my ex partner telling me he was going to make my life hell of earth, him chasing me on his bicycle, grabbing me and pushing me off mine, while I screamed for help and bystanders ignored me. Him standing outside my house constantly, intercepting me while I tried to go to school. His coming with some kind of tool and cutting the doorbell off the front of the house because he was mad I had finally called the co-op to fix the doorbell and hadn’t while he was living there because I was such a stupid bitch. Him getting a key from the co-op through lying and literally breaking into the house. And you know, all the rest. All the violence. My body going through the dry wall. Him kicking my legs out from under me and kicking me while I was on the ground. All the times I have not been able to keep myself safe.

After a bunch of this silence, Jay took over and suggested I try for a venue that was definitely outside of my budget, offering to pay for it for me. I filled out the form online and NOMAD got back to me immediately and offered me the space. I had to act quickly because the venue fills up quickly. It felt risky to pay big money for a venue in Montreal, because I didn’t feel confident in my ability to draw an audience here, and I wanted to be able to pay Jay back, and you know, maybe make some money on the launch. But I finally had a venue and I felt like I should just take a brave leap of faith so I did. I said yes and Jay paid for the venue and made posters for me.

In my haste to jump on the opportunity, I didn’t double check the date with my best friend, Nabiha Yahiaoui, who was supposed to open for me, and now she can’t come. This was the one friend by my side throughout my underworld journey, who believed me and supported me and insisted on my right to tell the truth even when no one else knew how to be there for me. I really wanted her to be there for the culmination of this work and through a fuck up on my part, she can’t be. This makes everything sadder, scarier, and harder. I checked with the venue to see if I could change it and I can’t. So I have to go forward without her being there, which is very sad and disappointing for a lot of reasons.

Normally launches are free and people just buy the book when they’re there if they want to. There were two reasons why I felt like I should risk having cover, even though it could potentially decrease attendance. One is because I am literally afraid of cancellers. I want to decrease the likelihood of people coming to my incest memoir launch and attacking me as an “abuse apologist.” I know that cancellers having to buy a ticket in order to do so will add a barrier to them attacking me. The other reason is that the venue was expensive and I would ideally like to not be in the negative. Normally bookstores host launches for free, taking a cut of the books/zines sold, but due to my being iced out in Montreal, it is no longer easy for me to have this type of launch, so I had to go with paying for a venue. Which increases the pressure on me to make money on the launch.

I had three weeks to do the promo, which should be plenty of time. Quickly, I started to worry that the launch would flop. There were few online sales and I worried that charging cover would make people who want to come not come, since everyone is so broke right now. I was afraid to say NO ONE TURNED AWAY FOR LACK OF FUNDS because I was afraid this would be an easy in for cancellers who want to disrupt the event. Upon seeing that so few people were buying tickets I added it to the online promo but it doesn’t say it on the posters. Even saying it online increases my worries about cancellers and not saying it on the poster makes me worry that people who would otherwise come, won’t. And the fact that no one is buying tickets makes me worry that there will not be enough attendance to justify the venue. And this makes me worry that I will be horribly embarrassed and proven to be a failure and a fraud (which is especially painful with so many haters relishing the idea of my failure). LOL. This is what Bebe Montoya is talking about and she’s so fucking brave for saying it out loud. I am following her lead in this painfully vulnerable admission. This launch, and the fact that I have only sold 8 tickets and it’s only a little over two weeks away, is pressing some big buttons inside me. These are old, old buttons and they read: MY MOTHER DOESN’T LOVE ME AND NOTHING I DO WILL EVER BE ENOUGH. ALL MY SUCCESS THUS FAR HAS BEEN A FLUKE AND A FREAK ACCIDENT AND I WILL BE REVEALED FOR THE FAILURE THAT I AM.

There are so many ways in my life that I have not been celebrated. I never graduated high school and don’t have a high school diploma, but I went back to school and got a BA and a Masters. I didn’t attend my graduation ceremonies. I don’t have family who would be excited about the fact that I graduated and I did not have it in me to make a big deal out of it myself. My mother, in the various times I have been in contact with her over the years, has always referred to my writing career as my “art and activism,” a subtle dismissal of the fact that I am a professional writer with a huge following. She has never read my work in all these years, except when she saw that I was writing about her, and then she threatened to sue me. There’s a gaping hole in me where parental love and pride is supposed to be, and I know it is both unfair and impossible to ask my audience to fill that hole, but it doesn’t mean those older pains are not activated by taking the risks that are necessary in any creative career.

So while I’m navigating all the normal stress of doing an indie launch, and the extremely abnormal stress of fearing being attacked by cancellers at my incest memoir launch, I also have a screaming child inside of me shouting NO ONE LOVES YOU AND EVERYONE CAN SEE YOU ARE A FAILURE. It is so embarrassing to admit this. And I honestly would not have been brave enough to admit it if it weren’t for Bebe’s courage. I’m following her lead and removing the third wall. I’m aligning with my ethics and principles of transparency in my creative process. This is part of it. This old pain being activated is a huge part of it. And pretending that it’s not so that I can appear cool is dishonest, and misrepresents the experience of being an artist. There are so many creatives who look up to me as an example for what an independent creative career can look like. And I don’t want them to think that if they feel this way they are doing something wrong. It is, unfortunately, part of it. And the intense pain and shame of those old NOBODY LOVES ME buttons being pushed can cause artists to abandon their work or refuse to take risks. I feel like puking writing this but Bebe gave me the courage to tell you the truth. This is what it’s like sometimes.

There’s another layer here as well. As I tell the story of The Realm of Unreality: An Incest Memoir in Essays and how it came to be, I keep repeating the story of the various ways people tried to repress this writing. Of course there is the general repression of my writing by the cancellers, constantly trying to silence a survivor because in their upsidedown world I am somehow an “abuse apologist.” Then there is the repression by my mother who leveraged psychiatry and the state against me, telling me I’m delusional and need psychiatric treatment, and telling me my substack and instagram would be monitored and if there was even an implication that my father is sexually abusive I would be contacted by a lawyer. Then there is the repression by my former best friend, and in approaching this launch I keep returning to that story, picking at it like a scab, and trying to find a way to integrate it.

The first question you may ask me, as someone who doesn’t believe in dealing with interpersonal drama online, is why don’t I talk to her about this instead of writing about it? The reason is because she told me to never speak to her again, blocked me on social media, and has also been writing online about me. Neither of us have named each other, and neither of us is calling for the other to be exiled, and both of us are writers who are writing through the experience. But I’m sure many people can figure out who each of us is talking about, and I am sorry that it is playing out this way. I also feel, weirdly, way more guilty about processing my feelings about how severely wronged I feel by her, publicly in my writing, than I have felt about the many times I have publicly written about how specific men have wronged me. In the cases where I have written about male exes and the horrible ways they treated me, I didn’t name them, but I knew some people could figure it out. I felt that my need to tell the truth about my experiences, combined with my public and constant insistence that no one is disposable, justified me writing about people who could be identified by some. I also feel this way about this situation, because what this ex friend did to me is, from my perspective, a profound and staggering betrayal, an act of domination and attempted control over my body that is on par with what abusive men have done to me, but I always feel more guilty about naming the fucked up behaviour of other women. And when I say guilty, I mean scared. Women twist the knife. And maybe I worry I’m twisting the knife too in writing about this, though I don’t think I have made any sweeping assessments about this ex friend’s character, only specific criticisms of very specific behaviours. She has definitely been making sweeping assessments about me, and being cancelled as I am, it is always terrifying when someone starts to publicly add their own justifications for the constant character assassination I experience. I thank her for not naming me.

For some reason, this friend seemingly became extremely triggered by the idea of my mother suing me. I understand it is a very scary prospect. I was very scared myself. I had also just learned, a week or so prior, that my ex partner had died by suicide in jail. My mental health was not in a good place. I was in crisis, and I think it was a very justified crisis. I am not someone who is always in crisis. I am someone who usually communicates responsibly, and can always own my side of the street once I’ve calmed down even if I was very triggered. So my insanity in this situation does not represent a pattern of mine where I’m always going crazy and expecting my friends to just deal with it. This was the first time in my entire relationship with this friend where I was behaving Very Crazily. And given the fact that I was grieving the death by suicide in jail of my first love (and abuser/rapist) as well as being threatened with legal action by my middle class feminist scholar mother for writing about the sexual abuse in my family (something I NEEDED to do to break the cycle of incest before becoming a mother myself) I think it is understandable that I was being crazy. I think I deserve some grace. And if this friend had decided to step away from my craziness and then come back once I’d calmed down instead of threatening me and trying to control me and then dramatically ending our relationship, I think we likely could have repaired. Even now, I would be open to trying repair, but only if she can own that what she did was not acceptable.

When I needed people in my life to be brave with me and back me in my decision to play chicken with my mother, this friend made the decision to echo what my mother was saying about me and to directly attack my writing. She told my other friend that I was “not in reality” and that I needed other people “to make decisions on my behalf.” This is abusive. The fact that we, culturally, feel very justified in stripping autonomy and agency from survivors when they are reacting in somewhat crazy ways, does not make it less abusive. The decision not to bend to my mother’s threats, and the risk that entails, is my decision to make. Not my friends’ or anyone else’s. This friend is not an incest survivor and she genuinely does not understand what was at stake for me. She could have said her piece and left it at that. But she tried to strip me of my right to make my own decisions and she tried to enlist my other friend in a project of overriding my autonomy. She then told me that the way I write, my immediate spontaneous practice of writing and my refusal to go over my writing with the eyes of a lawyer, was “giving away my power.” I told her to fuck off when she said this, so I guess that’s my side of the street because I normally would never swear at my friends. But I had already told her to back off and that she was way out of line and she kept going.

Years ago, with this same friend, I put my foot in my mouth when offering her my thoughts on a very specific experience that she has experienced that I had not experienced. She responded to this in a very crazy way and I didn’t enjoy being on the receiving end of that craziness. But I also recognized that I was out of line. I recognized that I had spoken with authority on something I actually knew nothing about, something that was her life not mine. So I apologized to her. To me, this is almost a exact reversal of that situation, although in my case I was in active crisis at the time due to an imminent threat, and instead of her reflecting and being like: Oh yeah, Clementine definitely knows more about incest than I do. She also knows more about court and sexual violence than I do since she’s been through a jury rape trial. So yeah maybe I’m out of line in badgering her with unsolicited advice and trying to override her autonomy and repress her writing when the trauma that is currently being inflicted upon her is that her mother is threatening her with legal action in order to override her autonomy and repress her writing. So yeah it didn’t feel good to be told to fuck off but maybe I am out of line here. Instead of that, she decided to double down on the idea that I did not know what’s best for me and could not make decisions for myself.

She then heard from a mutual friend that I was experiencing self harm ideation (wanting to cut myself). She was clearly very triggered by this and started sending me text messages that indicated she believed I was suicidal. I told her I wasn’t suicidal, that I was having thoughts about cutting. She told me that it was fair to interpret me talking about razorblades as a suicide threat. I told her this was very suicide illiterate, that cutting does not represent suicidality, that I was not suicidal, and I hadn’t even actually cut myself. She then told me that if I cut myself she would call 911 on me, even if she knew I was not a suicide risk.

I don’t know why I need to keep compulsively retelling this story. Except that I don’t think people believe me when I describe her behaviour as abusive. I am not character assassinating her by saying that. I’m not saying she’s an evil or irredeemably bad person. I am saying that she used threats of physical violence (police intervention and nonconsensual psychiatric incarceration) to control what I do with my own body. This is abusive. It is wrong. My body does not belong to her. I understand she might find it really triggering or upsetting to imagine me cutting myself. I hadn’t even told her directly that I was having these thoughts and she was absolutely free to exit the situation if it was too upsetting or triggering for her. But she is not entitled to threaten me with violence in order to control what I do with my body. She also knows that psychiatric incarceration is one of my greatest and most intense fears because I have been locked up and was severely traumatized by the experience. It was so fucked up to introduce these threats to a situation in which I was already in crisis.

Like is so often the case with people threatening trauma survivors in crisis, SHE was the one who was not in reality. I was in crisis and not communicating in the best ways, but I was absolutely clear about what my risk levels were, what I needed, and what I did not need. I was not a suicide risk. And yet her fear that I was a suicide risk was so huge that it caused her to threaten me with much greater material danger than I was actually in, obviously increasing the intensity of the crisis I was having. While she believes that she was justified in her attempts to control me in order to soothe her own feelings of distress, my mother also feels justified in that — people usually find ways to justify their attempts to dominate and control other people to make themselves feel better. But they aren’t justified. I was not violating anyone’s autonomy, and I was not a risk to my own life, therefore no one was justified in threatening me with force to control my own decisions about my body and my life.

And then she told me that I have “low cognitive empathy” and that I was forcing her to accept my emotional framing of the situation. She told me that me not allowing her to have a “different opinion” about her right to call 911 on me represents a “totalitarian impulse” within myself. I told her that her desire to lock me in a box represents a totalitarian impulse within herself. Then she told me to never speak to her again, blocked me on social media, and made a bunch of posts about people with “low cognitive empathy” and why she’s totally cool with people overriding her autonomy when they are right and she is wrong.

Despite my ex best friend’s weird insistence that I have “low cognitive empathy” I actually have lots of empathy, cognitive and otherwise. I can completely understand why her lack of knowledge and understanding of self injury and incest trauma could lead her to the false conclusion that I was a suicide risk when I wasn’t. I can also understand why the idea of me dying could be so triggering and upsetting that it could cause her to act in ways that are controlling, dominating, and threatening. If she came to me and said “I was really triggered and I was out of line” or some version of that, I would completely forgive her. Instead she has weaved all sorts of stories about me, taking the character assassination route that is so common to feminine modes of aggression. She justified her behaviour toward me to another friend who was trying to act as a mediator by listing off a long list of uncommunicated grievances and resentments she has about me, as if this in any way justified her threatening me with 911 when I was in crisis.

I keep having flare ups of compulsive retelling of this betrayal. I keep thinking I’ll find the way to say it where people will finally understand and believe me that even though I was very upset and thinking about cutting myself, I was still capable, am still capable, of making my own decisions. I also want to point out that I was right. I played chicken with my mom and I won. She backed off when she realized that her threats were not silencing me, that in fact I was writing about her threats. I have kept her anonymous and I think she realized that if she sued me her anonymity would go out the window. So I faced down my narcissist mother and I won. I made the right call. It was a risky call, yes, but it was the right one. It was the call I needed to make as an INCEST SURVIVOR. And this writing, The Realm of Unreality: An Incest Memoir in Essays, is the culmination of my courage.

During one of the flare ups of me obsessing about my ex best friend’s betrayal, my other best friend told me: It makes sense that you’re still grieving. I responded with: I am not grieving! I am angry! I have led with anger in every retelling of these events. I keep insisting over and over again that it was fucked up and wrong what she did to me. And I am right to insist that, because it was. If someone locked me in a room because I wouldn’t stop drinking, I think people could see how that is abusive. But using the state to lock me in a room because I want to cut myself is somehow seen as fine. It is not fine. And as an incest survivor and psychiatric survivor and domestic violence survivor, as someone whose bodily autonomy has been so severely violated over and over again, I really need people to understand that it is not fucking fine. Domination can wear the coat of benevolence and it often does, especially when the victim is a survivor. Just because someone says their abuse is “for your own good” does not mean that it is.

But my other friend is right — I am grieving. This friend who betrayed me in such a severe way, who joined my mother in saying both that I should stop writing about my father’s abuse and that I am too crazy to know what is real, is someone I trusted wholeheartedly. The fact that she betrayed me like this, cut me out of her life, and then justified her behaviour by making sweeping statements about my character is devastating. She is someone who I would have wanted to be there, at this launch, cheering me on. She is someone who I actually thought understood me and had my back. It is heartbreaking that things turned out this way.

So this launch is bringing all of this up too: the intense grief of who should be there and is not. The way that the process of writing and publishing this work destroyed one of my most important relationships. The way that it feels impossible for many people to love incest survivors when we don’t shut up and do what we are told, when we make decisions we need to make that make no sense to other people. I am grieving. I am heartbroken. I feel profoundly betrayed. I have lost so much to this writing, and I needed to write and publish this in order to stay in reality and end the cycle of intergenerational violence. I can’t believe how hard it has been and how much I have lost.

One of the main lessons I learned from my abusive family is this: you can have reality or you can have relationship, you can’t have both. I have spent so much of my life repressing reality in order to maintain relationship. The damage this has done is incalculable, and I knew that if I didn’t stop it I would be at great risk of repeating the cycle when I became a mother. My underworld journey was a journey of reckoning in which I chose to risk it all in order to tell the truth. It has been very hard. All of it has been very hard. Yet still I persevere and push forward. If there was an easier way, I wish I’d know what it was. Despite all the pain and loss and fear and triggers and attacks and threats and pushed buttons, I don’t regret the choices I’ve made. I don’t regret my writing.

If you are in Montreal, and you are able, it would mean the world to me if you would come to this launch. If you can’t afford a ticket, come anyway. If you’re in Montreal and have capacity to help out, that is very welcome and you can get in touch. If you are not in Montreal but feel moved to support the launch by helping me lose less money through welcoming those who can’t afford a ticket, I welcome any financial support here. Even if only a few people come, I know it is still important and worth it. I know these risks are an inherent part of being a writer, even when it feels insanely hard. I know that my audience is not my mother and can’t actually give the child parts of me the recognition and love they so desperately hunger for. I can’t believe how emotionally heavy and loaded the process of writing and publishing this work has been. I can’t believe how much fucking repression, intimidation, dismissal, and loss I have faced trying to put this writing into the world. Thank you to everyone on this journey with me. Thank you to everyone who has my back and cheers me on. It matters so much. It fortifies me against what sometimes feels impossibly hard. Thank you to Nabiha for having my back ferociously and knowing that what needed protecting was the truth. Thank you to Jay for paying for the venue, making the posters, and believing in me so much. Thank you to Éris for writing the words that emboldened me to cross the ocean to launch this writing. Thank you to Bebe, for helping me to remember that true courage is in vulnerability — that the whole point of all of this is telling the truth.

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Clementine Morrigan is an independent writer, cultural change maker, truth teller, and moral philosopher. She writes essays and literary nonfiction about ethics, politics, relationships, sexuality, violence, trauma, and unconditional compassion. Her cult classic zine, Love Without Emergency, has sold more than 11,000 copies (that’s a lot of stapling). Her podcast, Fucking Cancelled, independently toured the United States. Her readers have created and disseminated amateur translations of her work in several languages. If you have spent time in a punk house or queer collective house in the last 20 years, you have probably flipped through one of her zines in the bathroom.

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