Michaela's Musings

As a music lover, my tastes often fluctuate between various genres. Sometimes it changes based on the season, if I'm traveling, or the dominant experiences in my life at the time. Since I'm in Barcelona, I wanted to take the opportunity to actually document some of my recently most listened to before my taste changes again. So! Here are the top 5 songs that have been in constant rotation lately. I can't be high around you anymore - FLO From their sophomore album, the UK girl group delivers a delicious track about doomed love under the influence. The production is amazing. It's full, glossy, and reworks that classic early 2000s feel to a more modern sound. The lyrics detail the narrator's inner turmoil over a guy who's only affectionate when intoxicated. They really resonated with me due to an experience I had earlier this year. And as that hurt recently resurfaced, this song has made me realize that I deserve someone's sober love over another's drunken a...

This summer has been a slow one. My days were spent reading, watching classic films, and most of all! Painting. Ever since I was a young girl, I always enjoyed my school art classes. We experimented with perspective, oil, pastels, and clay. I loved the activity so much that my mom enrolled my siblings and I into after school sessions together every Friday. For Christmas, I was gifted seven canvases and I made it my mission to use them all. So without further ado, let me take you on a journey of my summer through art. The first painting was The Love Cow . She is surrounded by primroses. I created this piece off the high of my first kiss. Summer was in bloom and everything felt possible. He was gentle and oh so affectionate. In that moment, I understood why people dedicated songs and tomes of literature to this meeting of the lips. This piece ended up as a gift to a cousin of mine. Weary spawned after the realization I'd been ghosted. Silence and rain dominated those early summer da...

I've been thinking about Death lately. In this era of school shootings and devices that can deliver suffering from any corner of the world right to our hands, I think my generation is very acquainted with the Reaper. The first time I became acutely aware of my own mortality was the death of actor Cameron Boyce. I am the same age as him when he passed. Someone I grew up watching on TV throughout my childhood here one day, gone the next. I was struck by how quickly a life can be extinguished. The pain of burying a child and living with their absence for the rest of your life. The death of 18 year old Nolan Wells has been circulating social media and local news circuits. The college freshman went to Horn Island with his white friends for the Fourth of July. His body was finally found the following Monday and identified Tuesday.  I remember the first time I came across the story, saw the pictures of Wells with his friends on Independence Day. Seeing that they were from Mississippi, my ...

I have a soft spot for the name Danny. Don’t ask why. I couldn’t explain it if I tried. I’ve always loved words and the ways they take up space. How some stuff your mouth with marbles, while others roll off the tongue smooth as sweet vermouth. Kind of like Danny. It’s a soft name. One anyone can take and make their own. There’s a little joy in the way my face scrunches up, a smile breaking across my face as I call out this sugar spun name. The way my voice goes up an octave as I draw out the final sweet syllables, denoting my affection.  Danny is the sweet cream sliding down my throat. The trail of kisses down my thighs. Bubbling giggles erupting from feather light tickles. Destined to be loved by me. XOXO, Michaela

I never liked religion. The self-flagellation and force-feeding of beliefs. But most of all? It reminds me of my relationship with my mother. Kind and giving when satisfied. But any hint of disloyalty? Any allegiance to others or yourself is met with rage. Your self-confidence—once golden and plentiful—withers away. Your reservoir of joy now dried up. Those gentle embraces become harsh words with even harsher hands. And before you know it, you’re on your knees begging. Prayers become pleas to a creator who won’t answer. And I don’t know the solution. No magical words or ritual to make her come back. No arguing with something, someone so absorbed in their own power, they can’t see the child they have forsaken. So all you can do now is get up off your knees and leave. She may be your mother, but she is not your master. XOXO, Michaela

It’s summertime, which can only mean one thing. My garden is in bloom. Maybe it’s the sunshine and gentle breeze. The lack of clouds. Being able to wear less clothes.  The petals of my pussy are unfolding, so there’s only one solution: Get plowed. May is my birth month. I’ll be turning twenty, entering a new decade of autonomy and pleasure. Making magic between my thighs. Dressed in lacy pink lingerie—marking my journey into womanhood. I've felt the gentle caress of another's lips and hope they explore both sets. June is for the daughters of the sun. Beat down by the heat of my lover's body, glistening with sweat and slickness. I hope to indulge in some loving. Sweet kisses and car sex. Once-in-a-blue-moon kind of pleasure. July is for the horny creatives. My patriotism is to sweat slick bedsheets and country music. I want to get fucked—sweetly and filthily in equal measure. My lover’s tongue caressing the folds of my pussy—cum tasting like nectar and cherry cola. He's ...

Hello everyone! This is my article from the spring edition of The Drum: Black Love! I'm so incredibly proud of this piece and very grateful for The Drum community for giving me a space to be a vulnerable. Hope you enjoy. Here's the link:  The Drum Spring '26 The Art of Loving "Anyone with a heart would agree. It's so easy to fall in love with me" - "So Easy (To Fall in Love)" by Olivia Dean What is love?   It’s the honeyed scent of mango wafting through the air. It’s the cool sensation of your great-great grandmother’s well-worn sapphire rings and gold pendants against your skin.  Our society limits this powerful, transcendent emotion to the narrow space between two people.  But it’s more than a feeling; it’s a state of being.  Much of my childhood was spent in solitude. Sitting alone at lunchtime. Attempts to play at recess were rebuffed. My body became a target for mockery. I thought my lack of relationships was proof that there was nothing to love...

*This is from a class discussion post O nline tradwives are not a new phenomenon. In fact, they derive from a long history of white women upholding white patriarchy through the promotion and adherence to traditional gender roles. While the alt right is characterized by its aggression and "masculine" dominance, women's role in it has been to soften it, make it seem palatable to the masses. From female slaveowners to the United Daughters of the Confederacy to the Reich Bride Schools, white women have utilized their unique position to perpetuate systems of white supremacy. Their unique position—while limiting due to their gender—still allows them to exercise considerable power as white persons. These movements depend on the presumption that women are inherently softer. This lures people into the ideology, assuming that the presence of women makes these ideologies harmless or even aspirational. The emergence of tradwives on the internet is ignorant at best, and dangerous at w...

  As I prepared for college, I was inundated by adult relatives telling me the same thing: Enjoy it! These will be the best years of your life. I always found this sentiment quite puzzling. I mean, as adults in your 40s and 50s, your 20s were the best part of your life? As a second-year, I enjoy college. I love being within walking distance of my friends, restaurants, and other shops. I enjoy my classes—learning about women’s studies, how to write proofs, and fiction writing. It’s extremely enriching and has broadened my horizons.  However, I look forward to getting a job and having my own apartment. Being able to shower whenever I want. Having complete autonomy over my life. Lately, I’ve been doing research about the seven feminine archetypes out of curiosity. One of them is the Maiden. The embodiment of youth and innocence. She is Snow White and Sleeping Beauty. Waiting for Prince Charming to rescue them from their tower. It’s not lost on me that social media is inundated w...

Growing up, I was always bigger. Broad shoulders, thick thighs, big boobs, and a tummy. Even at my most fit (I played soccer for many years), I still had a tummy. I had muscle as well. At 17, I was almost 200 lbs. In my first year of undergrad, I barely ate and walked everywhere. I was constantly on the move. In the span of 10 months, I had lost 20 lbs. I’d gone from 189 lbs to 169 lbs. My thighs were smaller, my backrolls almost disappeared, my boobs got smaller, and my tummy got smaller. I was elated, and so was my family. I felt beautiful for the first time. But it came at a cost. Due to my lack of eating, I suffered from frequent migraines. My head would be in terrible pain in the mornings, something water couldn’t assuage. As I began my second year of undergrad, I made a promise to myself that I would eat more. At least one or two main meals a day. And it has helped. I don’t get as many migraines as I used to… but I’ve gained weight. Instead of 169 or 168 lbs, I’m now 173 lbs....

  I couldn’t describe an orgasm. Not even if I tried. But for you, dear reader, I shall try. There’s something transcendent about it. Fingers working in tandem with the sensations pulsing through my body. The way they flick and rub my sensitive nub, ushering me to a higher plane of existence. Carnal fantasies swirl around my head. Strong hands gripping soft flesh. Red marks painting my thighs. Mouths nipping at my sensitive buds. The messiness of pleasure. It’s like running a marathon. Muscles tensing as every caress draws me closer and closer to the edge.  Until I leap…and soar.  My back arches off from the bed, drawing raspy moans and murmurs from my lips. Body thrashing back and forth from the overwhelming thrill of being airborne. I ride my high until I cannot float anymore. I’m left breathless. My body singing with sleepy comfort. A dopey smile spreads across my face. My fingers sticky with the residue of my pinnacle—its slight saltiness tantalizing. Earthbound as we...

"A new species would bless me as its creator and source; many happy and excellent natures would owe their being to me" - Mary Shelley, Frankenstein Growing up,  Frankenstein  was my favorite novel. The story of a mad scientist playing God is both bone-chilling and thought-provoking in its exploration of humanity's often violating curiosity. Victor Frankenstein's attempts to defy death delineate a sort of womb envy that bypasses women entirely. A theme I find extremely fascinating. Over the past few months, I've watched a handful of Frankenstein adaptations and riffs (thank you Tubi!). Of these films were  The Brain That Wouldn't Die (1962) , Re-Animator , and Frankenhooker . These were a hoot to watch. Absolute cult classics. While they err more on the comedic side, I found myself drawn to the subtle themes about female autonomy and the male gaze. The Brain That Wouldn't Die (1962) "I told you to let me die" - Jan Compton The defining feature of ...

  "We don't wanna hear you say 'nigga' no more" - "Euphoria" by Kendrick Lamar Lamar at the 2026 Grammy Awards  On February 1st, rapper Kendrick Lamar set a new record at the Grammy Awards. Winning five out of his nine nominations, Lamar is now the most awarded rapper in history with 27 Gramophones—surpassing Jay Z's 25. This morning, two of my white classmates were discussing this year's Grammy Awards. Particularly that Kendrick Lamar didn't deserve his wins for Best Rap Album or Record of the Year—that the prestigious award show just likes to throw awards at him, among other denigrations of gnx  and Lamar's artistry as a whole. Once upon a time, white people would have never  dared to insert themselves into rap and hip-hop spaces. The music industry has always been a money-making business, but some spaces prioritized musical integrity more than others.  Rap and hip-hop were born out of a need to be heard—to critique the systems that ena...

"What is your woman? Is she just a container for the child? That soft pink matter" - "Pink Matter" by Frank Ocean  Content Warning: Discussions of sexuality   Every time I consider going back to Catholicism, I end up at the same conclusions. Religion is too restrictive. Too pure, too clean, too…perfect. It sows guilt for simply being. For being a woman. For bleeding. For curiosity. For thirst. For having an appetite. I don’t know about you guys, but I have a big fucking appetite. Growing up, and even now, I've always been a big foodie. Whether it's shrimp roti or a bowl of cavatappi, I've always had a deep appreciation for well made food. Eating slowly, savoring every morsel with primal enjoyment.  Throughout my childhood, asceticism was prized. Abstinence from all forms of indulgence. As a chubby child, my parents would encourage me to fast and go on diets. Chide me for taking seconds while filling my brother's plate because "he's a growing...

Something I want to establish is exactly how I conceptualize my animistic views. All of the major fixtures of our world are feminine in my eyes. Embodying this energy in different ways.  The Sun is fierce, ever-burning individuality that never sleeps.  The Moon is soothing, tranquil peace that encourages us to rest and recharge.  The Ocean is a mighty yet nurturing presence teaching us how to let go.  The Earth is a resilient and gentle mother who never lets her children go without.  The Universe is the fast-paced, ever-changing, wet womb constantly creating.  And in one way or another, we are expressions of this divinity.  We are not at the mercy of a tyrannical ruler. Our existence is relational. Sisters, lovers, and mothers. Dependent on how we treat each other. That is how our love and joy live on. Everything is cyclical. Creation, death, and rebirth. Energy cannot be destroyed; it simply takes another form. Everything lives and dies. From hum...

Over the summer, I had a dream. After cleaning my dresser, I found a red rosary I’d gotten in my freshman year of high school. It was a cherry red, with a silver crucifix and centerpiece with Joan of Arc on it. I put it on for fun, donning it like a necklace. My period was in full swing at the time. This is where the dream comes in.  I was in my bedroom that really wasn’t my bedroom and I took down the crucifixes on the walls and instead set up figures and statues to venerate Mary and other spiritual stuff (I don’t quite remember the other things). But I do distinctly remember taking out a pink and white statue of the Virgin Mary.  I don’t know what it means. I don’t know if my subconscious was reflecting my evolving faith or if she was calling out to me. Either way, it has reignited my interest in Catholicism. Not the doctrine, but the traditions. I still reject the religion, but it’s still so beautiful. The stained glass, the hymns, getting seafood on Fridays during Lent, an...

 Hi everyone! I'm here with more of an opinion piece. As you probably know, generative AIs like ChatGPT have become more and more present in our world. From academia to creative art, it seems like we can't escape the chatbox. I'm not here to regurgitate facts or statistics. Rather, I want to speak on a phenomenon that's grown increasingly relevant. As a tween, I LOVED fanfiction. Fanfiction.net (my ride or die), AO3, and the occasional Wattpad stories were my kryptonite. I stayed up in the wee hours of the night reading from the fandoms I adored (TMNT, Disney's Zombies, Teen Titans just to name a few). At school, I'd anxiously count down the hours until dismissal and reuniting with our home computer so I can see any new updates. I keep seeing tags such as "ai generated" pop up on some of these platforms, and it breaks my heart. Sure, it's easier . More convenient to copy and paste. But it misses the whole point of creative writing . As a writer mys...