Planet America at the End of July.

The documentary about my life is currently named, "Please, no."

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As of now, this is planned to be a monthly series. It's a check-in of sorts because I'm getting feedback that none of my insanity is coming through on this platform. If it is insanity you desire, insanity you shall get.

I want it noted that both "Planet America" posts have cover images related to crying—something I don't enjoy doing, but right now, I have no choice. It is an all-encompassing emotion at the moment. Physical and non-physical tears. If you did not examine the cover image for the last one, you did not truly understand my June. July was worse.

We'll start small.

Austin Butler...Our Romance is Over.

Partially—there are still residual feelings to scrape through, but we're getting there. I guess you can say the Elvis is not Elvis-ing anymore. Sorry. You still did a solid job in the film. My brain is simply not exploding as that of a sexless teen from the 50s anymore.

Warner Bros. Pictures, you still need to send me my check. This still very much counts as promo, because I'm springing back your film into memory far and wide.

Speaking of Movies...Aaron Taylor Johnson.

I'm sure some of you have seen what Bullet Train is doing in the media lately. The desperation is not quite at the same level as Elvis—and literally everything else. Top Gun was ready to have Tom Cruise giving Tampax tutorials to remind us that the movie is in theatres now. So, yes, not quite as desperate, but she's still doing her thing.

Her thing brought an old love back on my radar. I've been committed to Aaron Taylor Johnson since I watched Angus, Thongs and Perfect Snogging. It was somewhat of a romantic awakening for me. So tell me why after at least thirteen years of dedication, I only just found out during this press run that he recently reactivated his Instagram. I sat there in pain when he first got rid of it. It's just been out there this whole time, him being handsome on it unbeknownst to me. The disrespect.

Resolutions, huh, sis?

We're definitely not making resolutions next year. I was going through my not-too-resolute resolutions and realized the only thing I have fully succeeded at so far is true crime. I jumped back in and never left; I'm talking podcasts, documentaries, articles, YouTube videos, and social media posts. We're back in our prime. I've also partially succeeded at letting my phone go. These days, she just gets thrown off somewhere when I'm done with her. I'm proud of that.

However, in the last three months, all I'm receiving is news that someone has passed. I will not say anything further because I have now realized how jinxing works. We are definitely never doing resolution #8 again. We'll be keeping that one in our thoughts. The whole thing is much deeper, but I don't want to fully dive in just yet. Day-by-day.

Indiana is Taking Precedent Over Your Uteruses.

Following the ratchet events of last month, Indiana is more than excited to be the first to start making some changes. Shocking to no one. Were you shocked?

I know only three things about Indiana.

One. They are the unnerving type of scary—the silent but deadly type—not obnoxious like Alabama, just...chilling.

Two. Adam Driver has upbringings there—do with that information what you will. The place doth not maketh the person.

Three. If you are there, your uterus is now theirs, except in a few cases.

The Fergie Appreciation Squad.

Not the royal Fergie, "Big Girls Don't Cry" Fergie.

I forgot to mention the last time that I'm so glad the song "Glamorous" is having her moment—thanks to Jack Harlow's song that I still have yet to listen to. I've always felt as though she was the often-overlooked sister to "Fergalicious". Although "Fergalicious" is iconic in its own right, "Glamorous" sonically took me to a very happy place for many, many years. I always felt really bad being the one person that can't join the full sing-along to "Fergalicious" when the throwback segments kick in at parties. I always thought, "God if they played Glamorous right now I'd be fucking shit up—these people have no idea. I hate FOMO." I often make up for it by being the top-to-bottom "Promiscuous" girl. Now, I shall be left behind no more.

One day, Gwen Stefani's, "Luxurious", "The Sweet Escape", and "What You Waiting For?" will also triumph over "Hollaback Girl" and I will truly rise.

Side note: I watched Jack Harlow and Brandy performing the aforementioned song, "First Class". I need Fergie to give me the official 2022 remix with Brandy doing whatever she was on those prerecorded background vocals during the chorus—you know, the legendary Brandy vocal layering. The thing my arteries did when they heard that??? Make it happen, because otherwise, I'm about to illegally produce a song.

Beyoncé Was Definitely Spying On My Stats.

Throughout the past year, I've been building what I could crown as the perfect House/Dance/Disco playlist—not Swedish House Mafia, House (bless them, they've given me some wonderful tunes) but specifically, the original black, gay House. I recently reached a point where I deemed it pretty perfect and diverse, and then here comes Beyoncé.

So, what is it? Do you want me to start over then??? The cut-off for the playlist was three songs per artist, ma'am. Buy and stream Renaissance by Beyoncé, but just know, she's really rude.

I'm Point Five Seconds From Opening a Tik Tok Account.

It won't happen. The Lord is on my side because from what I see, Tik Tok is better on a desktop—the only app that is. I may actually get through without ever making one. It would be like Vine all over again, except Vine got so good that I opened an account during its final two years but never posted anything. I still miss her. Tik Tok is for dancing, chaos, and creating videos you will annoy your Instagram followers with.

I'm also aware that I wrote TikTok wrong every time. I googled it after I was done typing, but thought it was funny and ages me keeping it this way.

That's all, friends. I'm vehemently avoiding eights at the moment for superstitious reasons. I will stop right at seven today. Time to go cry over Marsha P. Johnson and Sylvia Rivera...again.

Heads up: Story coming soon.