I have been constantly broke for the past few months, and for that reason I really slept on getting a copy of this zine.  I’m now pretty bummed that I did that.

Reckless Chants No. 19: History Lesson, Part 2, by Rust Belt Jessie

Reckless Chants is the latest zine series from long-time zinester Jessie Lynn McMains (Rust Belt Jessie).  I’ve been following Jessie on tumblr for awhile now, but this is the first of her zines that I have actually gotten my hands on, and I think it was definitely a good one to start with.  Jessie prefaces RC19 with some of her thoughts about punk rock and zine-making (some of which you can read here), and then dives headfirst into the rest of the zine.

What I really like about this issue is the various styles Jessie uses to tell her stories.  I really felt like I was reading a fanzine, perzine, show review, and travel narrative all tied together by some jangly power chords.

At long last, Cometbus has some competition in the punk writing realm.  RC19 stacks up with Cometbus in poignancy and relevance, and is still assembled by hand.  So into it, and you should be too.  Really looking forward to reading more of Jessie’s writing.

Reckless Chants #25: Dear You

The zine will be ¼ size, approximately 80 pages, with cardstock covers. It will feature personal essays on the music of Jason Molina (Songs: Ohia, Magnolia Electric Co.), Sylvia Plath, Brassai, my experience as Poet Laureate of Racine, cigarettes/quitting smoking, remembering and letting go, and much more, as well as short pieces about my day-to-day life and various other topics.

I plan to have this done and ready to mail in early November, at the latest, though hopefully it will be done sooner.

Preorder now on Etsy.

It was the hottest day of the last summer ever.
I worked in a bookstore in Milwaukee that had no central air, and our one window airconditioner decided to crap out that day. It got so hot that by 2 p.m. it was insufferable and my manager said: “Let’s close up early, it’s too damn hot and no one’s coming in anyway.”
I headed to the east side, to begin a long night of revelry with my best friends—my Milwaukee pals, Levi and Kellyn and Ben, and Maggie, too, who’d taken the train up from Chicago. Levi and Ben were still at work, so Maggie and Kellyn and I went to the Nomad for the prix fixe (which we pronounced prick’s fix cuz we thought it was funny)—$5 for a shot of Jameson, a can of PBR, and a cigarette. We had a few rounds, and by the time Ben and Levi arrived, the three of us were pretty soused. We kept drinking. The five of us stopped at nearly every bar on the east side, at least those that had decent specials.
Between bars, we stopped in a burger joint for grub, then sat on the curb and listened to a band of trainhopping folkpunk kids play washboards and plastic tubs, acoustic guitars and fiddles. They did such a rollicking version of Black Flag’s “Six Pack” that I bought a case of Blatz for them.
After dark, me and my friends found a karaoke bar. We took turns singing, Alice Cooper and Joan Jett and I can’t even remember what else. I sang a couple songs from Cabaret, like I do. A drunk girl who’d come to the bar alone kept calling me sultry girl and at one point she climbed into my lap, and poor hapless Ben was convinced she was hitting on him.
When we left that bar, we walked down to a park that runs along the lakeshore. It didn’t offer much relief from the heat. The night was humid and there was no breeze to speak of, but it was better than being inside. We waded in Lake Michigan and then found this big old tree and nestled ourselves in its massive branches.

I have a shoebox full of snapshots of that night. I don’t even have to look at them to remember what they’re of: my friends and I making goofy faces, sticking pull-tabs from beer cans into our nostrils, making out with a statue of Al Capone. My friends sitting on the curb, singing karaoke, getting drunk, drunk, drunker.
And my favorite: Maggie and Levi and Kellyn and Ben perched in the branches of that tree like strange gargoyles with tattoos and funny-colored hair.
That’s the last time we were all together, like that.

Oh, I saw them all after that. We were all still friends, for a while. But that was the last time the five of us were all together. That was the last summer when we all still had time for things like getting drunk and wandering around with no particular destination. The last time when we all still cared more about booze and adventure and friendship than anything else, before our careers and families got in the way.
The last summer ever.
—  Jessie Lynn McMains, from Reckless Chants #24: Snapshots of Ghosts
On Old Route 66, driving toward Joshua Tree. East of Amboy, California, we passed a railroad berm that’s been decorated by people passing through. Most of them wrote or drew things with rocks: RAY WUZ HERE, I LUV U MOM, GO BLUE, ☮. Others left things: I saw a lawn chair underneath a beach umbrella, both faded from the sun; a Chinese guardian lion. All these names, messages, symbols, ephemera.
Oh, humans, I thought. All of us want to leave a mark—even if all that amounts to is our name written in rocks in the desert, or a zine that only a handful of people will read. We all just want to say “I was here, I was here, I was here.”
—  Jessie Lynn McMains, from Reckless Chants #24: Snapshots of Ghosts
live through this

After Kurt died, Courtney’s name was on everyone’s lips. Some people felt sorry for Courtney, but most people hated her for it. They blamed her. People conspiracy-theorized that she’d killed him, or had him killed. Others blamed her in a more indirect way, blamed her for not getting him off drugs or for not getting him enough help with his depression (not understanding that you can’t always save someone from their own pain, no matter how much you love them), or claimed she had driven him so crazy that he’d killed himself. It was easy to hate Courtney, to make her into the scape-girl, because she was loud and angry, because she did drugs, because she had ratty bleached hair and wore ripped-up dresses and smeared red lipstick. She was easy to hate because she played balls-out heavy rock’n’roll, because she did whatever the fuck she wanted. Because she wasn’t some silent sweet thing. Because god forbid we blame a man for his own actions - if he screws up his life, or ends it, it’s because a woman drove him to it, some Yoko Nancy Courtney succubus who was hungry for money, for drugs, for fame, for love. And then Live Through This came out, a week after Kurt’s death, and that made the people who already hated her more furious: as though it were all a gruesome publicity stunt, as though she’d somehow planned the whole thing, planned to have her album drop right after the love of her life fucking killed himself.

I didn’t know much about Courtney, other than what the media and my peers said about her. I’d only heard a couple Hole songs. I did know that I found her intriguing. The things about her that other people hated, like her wild, punk rock Alice in Wonderland style and her brash attitude, I liked those. I thought they were glorious. In some unnamed part of me, I thought she was the sort of person I’d like to be. And then, about a month after Live Through This was released, this alterna-goth-punk grrrl befriended me. My school was a middle school and high school, combined. I was nearing the end of my 6th grade year, and this girl, she was finishing up 9th grade. I never could figure out why she was nice to me - she seemed light-years ahead of me in terms of coolness and experience. Maybe she felt sorry for me, since most of the kids in my grade made fun of the way I looked, the way I walked, the way I existed. Maybe she saw in me a younger version of herself. Whatever the reason, she was so nice to me. When she saw me in the hallway between classes or during lunch or free period, she complimented me on my clothes, or the book I was reading, or she asked me what I was writing in my hateful notebook. She told me it was rad that I kept a journal and wrote poetry. “You should write a zine,” she told me. “Yeah, I’ve been thinking about it,” I said. One day, we got to talking about music. I mentioned some of my favorites: Nirvana, Smashing Pumpkins, The Cure, Green Day, Operation Ivy. Later that week, she gave me a mix tape of some of her favorites, bands she thought I’d like based on the ones I’d mentioned. I shook with excitement when she handed me the cassette - no one had ever made me a tape before - and I put it in my boombox as soon as I got home. The whole tape was great: Sonic Youth, Soundgarden, 7 Year Bitch, Babes In Toyland, Mudhoney, Nine Inch Nails, Tori Amos, Pixies, Jawbreaker, Hole… I grew to love most of those bands in the coming months and years, but the songs that hit me upon first listen were the Hole songs she’d chosen: “Violet” and “Miss World.” And the sky was made of amethyst / I am the girl you know can’t look you in the eye. The next day, I told her how much I loved the Hole songs, and by the end of the week, she’d dubbed me a copy of Live Through This.

That album was a revelation. It was a horrific fairytale, images of purple skies and roses white and red butting up against kill-me-pills and pieces of a girl in a box by the bed. It was a huge, dark sound, a tale of disillusionment and sorrow and fear, and also desire (desire for sex, for love, for everything). It was my desire and darkness, like someone had yanked it up out of my guts and made it into this music that sounded like dried flower petals wrapped in broken glass. I ripped a couple of my old dresses to shreds, and I tried them on in front of my mirror. I smeared red lipstick on my lips and let my hair tangle. Shreds and smears and tatters, I stood in front of my mirror, and screamed along with Courtney. I want to be the girl with the most cake. (And someday, you will ache like I ache.)

-Jessie Lynn McMains, from Reckless Chants #22 (2015)


Reckless Chants #24: Snapshots of Ghosts

A collection of memories (or, snapshots) that jump back and forth in time from 2016 to years past, interspersed with thoughts about memory and ghosts.

Largely text, but with a very zine-y aesthetic: collage, black and white photographs, rubber-stamped lettering, and graphite doodles.

42 pages (+ a pull-out centerfold of a collage I made), ½ letter. Covers printed on pale grey paper.

Excerpts: “In October, I attended a meeting at Marina Gardens…” “In that same class, we had to write papers…” “Declan and I were waiting in line…” “In the days after the 2016 election…” “On Old Route 66, driving toward Joshua Tree…

$5 on Etsy

24 Hour Revenge Therapy

“Listening to this makes me feel like I’m sixteen again,” I said to my buddy Adam, when I was 22. We were sitting in the living room of the punk house where he lived and I was crashing at the time, drinking Big Gulp-sized whiskey & Cokes, listening to some punk band or other. “You always say that,” he said. “I do?” “Yeah. Every time we listen to punk, you say it makes you feel like you’re sixteen again.”

When I was 16, I was fucking punk. I’d been on the way to turning out a punk for many years. I became part of the scene at age 15, and by my 16th birthday (New Year’s Eve, 1997) Jessie was a Punk Rocker. So what else was there to do in 1998 but throw myself into living like a punk? What living like a punk meant to me was living a life of adventure, living a life like I’d read about in Cometbus. It meant a life of travel and exploration, of dumpster diving and short-lived love affairs. It meant a life of the most rooftop-scaling joys and the most bone-deep lows. Now, some of that was part of being a teenager (it was so easy to feel like everything was either The Best Thing That Had Ever Happened or The End Of The World). And some of it was intrinsic to who I was (manic-depressive tendencies will do that to you). Some of it was part of the world I’d glimpsed through zines and Sassy when I was tiny and tenderhearted. (That world of art and pain and love, of boys and girls/men and women who did interesting things.) And some of it was as Beat as it was Punk, but there’s no surprise there (I got into the beats at almost exactly the same time I got into punk). Maybe saying that I threw myself into living like a punk doesn’t quite describe it. Maybe what I mean is: for so many years, I tried to keep up the outward appearance of being a good girl, and I was afraid to do certain things (at least in public: I did those things either in private or when I was far away from home). I was afraid of disappointing my parents, and afraid of the ‘cool kids’ thinking I wasn’t cool enough. But by the time 1998 hit, I’d said ‘fuck it, I’m gonna do the things I want to do anyway,’ and I openly engaged in desperate acts (the kind that made me look stupid).

The way I got into Jawbreaker was the way I got into a lot of bands - I’d first heard them a few years prior, on a mix tape from a zine pal, and I’d liked the sound but it hadn’t stuck with me. The timing had been off. At 16, I was ready for Jawbreaker. I bought 24 Hour Revenge Therapy (and Bivouac & Dear You shortly thereafter). 24 Hour Revenge Therapy was like a train (into you like a train), it bounced and chugged along, it screeched into noise but then slowed down into tiny soft moments, barely noticeable but everpresent. It was sadness and loneliness and drinking and love, and it had its depressing moments - and I had my depressed moments during that terrible, wonderful year, but Jawbreaker made me feel almost joyful in my depression. 24 Hour Revenge Therapy was like nothing I’d ever heard before and everything I’d ever wanted, and it became the soundtrack to that year, the soundtrack to the adventures and the mundane moments. I listened to the record in my room while I pasted up my fanzine or sipped from my secret stash of booze. I made a cassette copy and carried it around with me like it was the Holy Grail of Punk, and I listened to it while I rode my bike or wandered around Racine, and while I smoked cigarettes on the garage roof. I took it with me on airplane trips to see my friends back east or to explore the Pacific Northwest, took it on car rides to summer camp in Whitewater and the coffeeshops of Milwaukee and the subdivisions of suburban Illinois and the 24-hour diners of Kenosha and the wilds of Door County. It rode with me on trains and trains and trains between Kenosha and Chicago; I listened to it while I looked out the window at the lake and at the backsides of brick buildings in sleepy suburbs. I listened to it while I rode CTA buses and el trains and found my way to Belmont Ave. or to shows at Metro or the Fireside Bowl. I listened to it while I lay in bed, with the volume low so I could hear the sounds of trains and foghorns (and gunshots and sirens) that came in through my window; at those times, Blake Schwarzenbach’s raspy voice was a punk rock lullaby that sent me off to a restless sleep full of sad and beautiful dreams.

“The Boat Dreams From The Hill” was all my impossible dreams, I listened to it while I walked by Lake Michigan, that blue-grey expanse. I knew it was only Michigan on the other side but it looked to my heart like the high seas, and I thought: “I wanna be a boat, I wanna learn to swim.” And there I was, stuck on the hill - but sometimes rain brought girlish wonder. (Because of the scenery of my life when it was the soundtrack to my life, when I listen to 24 Hour Revenge Therapy now, I often see rain soaked visions of Racine, Kenosha, Waukegan, Chicago. Funny that a Bay Area band reminds me of the midwest.) “Boxcar” was the theme song, is the fucking theme song; I was fucking punk but already hated the elitism, the rules, the way people said there was one way to be punk - their way. I was passing out while you were passing out your rules, and “you don’t know what I’m all about, like killing cops and reading Kerouac.” “Ashtray Monument” is so sad, so sad, that worst part of a divorce or breakup when your whole life breaks apart, and “No one said that this life was easy. Did that no one ever live a life this hard?” (The song came back to haunt me in later years, after the breakup of my first long-term, cohabitant relationship: “Do you remember our whole life? I did the dishes while you read out loud.”) “Condition Oakland” was my life, again I picture Racine, not Oakland, when I hear it. Well, no, now I picture both, but I’m trying not to jump too far ahead in time… It was my life when I was 16, so when Blake sings “I rode down to the tracks,” I see myself riding my bike to the tracks that cut across State Street, standing there hoping for a train to go by so I could read the graffiti and imagine hopping on it (but they just stared back, trainless). When he sings “Climbed out onto my roof, so I’d be a poet in the night,” I see myself sitting on the garage roof that my bedroom closet led out onto, chain-smoking and scribbling in my journal. And then, you know, halfway through it’s beautiful noise and woven in is Jack Kerouac’s voice: “and everything is pouring in, the switching moves of boxcars in that little alley which is so much like the alleys of Lowell and I hear far off in the sense of coming night that engine calling our mountains,” and oh God, oh God. “Ache” made me ache, I felt it in my soul. I believed in desperate acts, and “I never felt like this before. I say that every hour.” That was being a teenager, that sense that every intense thing I felt was completely new to me, to the world. “Do You Still Hate Me?” was the way I felt about everyone, all my desperate crushes and loves (that I usually assumed hated me, or at least didn’t like me as much as I liked them). I wrote them letters that I never sent, letters that said: “Hey, I remember that day. And I miss you.” “Jinx Removing,” was and is one of my all-time favorite songs. It’s a happysad tune that made me jump up and down, because I was too old not to get excited about rain and roads, Egyptian ruins, our first kiss. And “In Sadding Around” - that was another one that came back to haunt me. By the time I was 21, five years after I’d first heard it, sleeping off those last five years took another five.

If I ever see Adam again, I’ll let him read this piece. This is what I meant all those times when I said “this makes me feel like I’m 16 again.” Certain punk albums - the best ones - whether they’re new to me or old favorites I’ve rediscovered, remind me of how I felt back then. They remind me of having 24 Hour Revenge Therapy in my Walkman while I rode my bike, and how, though my heart broke every day, when I heard those drumbeats, bass lines, and guitar chords, when I heard Blake sing: “Boat on a hill, never going to sea,” and I rode my bike down the hill, toward the lake, it felt like maybe I could turn into a boat and float forever.

[originally appeared in Reckless Chants #22; I’m sharing it in honor of the announcement that Jawbreaker will be reuniting to play Riot Fest this year]

…sometimes I have meltdowns about not getting to do something that I really wanted to do. For instance— I can’t count the number of times I have wanted to go to a show and haven’t been able to for whatever reason, and I wound up doing something like lying on the floor crying for hours. People on the outside of the situation, people who don’t live with my particular kind of craziness, and people who can’t read my thoughts (i.e., everyone) often see this kind of behavior as me throwing a tantrum; they see it as a side effect of a spoiled, cushy life. Someone once said to me: “If not getting to go to a show is the worst thing in your life, then I’d say you have it pretty damn good.” I’ve never been able to explain that of course not getting to go to a show is not the worst thing in my life. It never has been, it never will be. But it’s never really about the show I’m not going to, that’s just the trigger. Like, sometimes it triggers thoughts of everything else I don’t get to do, which leads to thoughts of everything I’ll never get to do, and next thing you know I’m enmeshed in some big existential shitshow about the fleetingness of time, and mortality, and how we’re all ultimately alone in the universe, and all I wanted to do was go to a show and get banged up in the pit and sing along with friends and strangers and not feel so alone for a couple goddamn hours. Or, if the reason I can’t go is because of lack of money, it triggers thoughts of how little money I have, and why am I such a failure, but then wait why is money even how I’m measuring success, and it’s not really but oh shit I need money to survive, and why the fuck do we live in a world where you need money to survive, fuck capitalism, but how the fuck do I end capitalism?

When I’m in a relatively healthy place, mentally, and I have to miss a show, it’s just: “Oh, bummer. Well, there will be other shows.” But when I am not, it feels like the end of the fucking world. And yeah, okay, I guess you could call these meltdowns tantrums, but they’re not the tantrums of a spoiled brat. They’re not “I want an Oompa Loompa and I want it now” tantrums; they’re tantrums about enormous fucking nightmares like the loneliness of life, or feeling powerless under capitalism. Which is actually sort of hilarious, in an “if I didn’t laugh about it, I’d be crying, and god knows I spend enough time crying” sort of way.

Jessie Lynn McMains, from Reckless Chants #23: “What Cannot Be Said”

Another excerpt from my truly almost finished zine, aka, one of the saddest/hardest fucking things I have ever written.

Yeah, everyone liked Dookie, but I still think it belongs to the kids like me - the weirdos and outcasts, the freaks and geeks, the nerds and losers. It belongs to those of us who were made fun of for being ‘too dumb’ or ‘too smart,’ ‘too skinny’ or ‘too fat,’ and those of us who were harassed for being fags and dykes and sluts by people who were only hurling those words at us because they had a nasty power, not because they knew anything about our sex lives or our orientations. -excerpt from a longer piece that will appear in my upcoming zine, Reckless Chants #22

… punk is, as ever, dominated by straight, cis, white dudes. Also, for a subculture that purports to be different from the mainstream, there is an awful lot of racism, sexism, homophobia, transphobia, rape culture, etc., in the scene; not to mention your garden-variety punker-than-thou assholes thinking they get to decide who’s punk and who’s not. (Sing along with me: “You’re not punk, and I’m telling everyone.”)

I get discouraged, too. But then something happens that makes me fall back in love with punk: I hear a kickass new album or read a zine that explodes in my heart like a Molotov cocktail, I go to a show where everyone dances to the music and buys each other drinks in between bands, I meet someone who is fighting the oppressive parts of the punk scene or someone who’s a dorky, fucked-up mess like I am. Something like that happens and I realize, yeah, there’s a lot of bullshit in punk but there’s a lot of good shit, too, and I can’t give up on it.

I think it’s important for those of us who are railing against the negative aspects of punk to continue carving out space for ourselves and people like us; to continue trying to eradicate the racist, sexist, homophobic dude-bros from our scene. Yeah, we all need a break sometimes, we all need to step back from punk sometimes, but stepping back from it doesn’t mean giving it up forever. Even when I take a break from it, it’s in everything I do. Punk shaped me as a person, for better or worse…


Rust Belt Jessie, Reckless Chants No. 19: “History Lesson, Part 2”

Got this zine a couple days ago, and it’s phenomenal.  Review once I finish it.


Love letters to way-too-late whiskey-drunk nights, stolen hearts and stolen kisses, small-town parking lots and bad decisions and even badder girls, WWTAWWTAP is a gritty and gorgeous series of riffs on living and loving punk. Like your very first show all over again, it’ll set your blood on fire.-Sarah McCarry, author of the Metamorphoses trilogy and publisher/editor of the Guillotine series


Jessie Lynn McMains is the 2015-2017 Poet Laureate of Racine, Wisconsin. She has been self-publishing her writing in zines since 1994, and currently publishes the zine series Reckless Chants. She is a two-time Pushcart Prize nominee for fiction, and her poetry and prose have recently appeared in The Chapess, New Pop Lit,Witchsong, Rising Phoenix Review, Voicemail Poems, and I Want You to See This Before I Leave, amongst other publications. She performs spoken word locally as well as across the U.S. and Canada, and teaches workshops on zine-making, memoir, and poetry.

So why do I still make zines? There are two main reasons: 1. I’m trying to make some human connection. I’m a lonely weirdo and I want other lonely weirdos to read my zine and maybe not feel so alone, and if I’m lucky maybe they’ll even write to me and tell me about themselves. 2. I have the compulsion to document and mythologize my own life. I think it’s important for all of us to document and mythologize our lives and the lives of the people we cross paths with - cos these days, unless we’re big-name celebrities, no one’s gonna do it for us. Fuck the star-making machine, we’ll turn ourselves into stars. We’ll turn ourselves into fucking legends.
—  Reckless Chants #19

“A pinch of self-destruct is better than total self-annihilation”

 Reckless Chants 21

You know a zine is damn good when you’re two pages in and already have music in your head.  I was reading it on the bus wishing I had an MP3 player/smartphone type device so I could listen to Mischief Brew, Bruce Springsteen, and Woody Guthrie.  rustbeltjessie has a way of putting music in your head without writing a “music zine.”  Few of the music zines I grew up around did that, but she incorporates the music into the story and suddenly there are songs in your head.  Maybe it’s because she talks about music I love.  I snuck outside during work today to have a cup of coffee and read Reckless Chants.  It was too beautiful to be stuck inside all day.  I came inside ready to listen to the Salteens and X. (And I am while I’m writing this)  When she writes about summer and adventure, I feel summer and adventure.

 She writes about the war in Iraq which I haven’t thought much about in years.  At one point I was angry, Angry, ANGRY! about it.  I was reading every book I could find, and wrote a pamphlet, but I wasn’t changing any minds, just getting death threats.  I felt so helpless in that fight.

She writes about punk in a way that doesn’t make me go, “Ugh! Punk: definitions, cliques, punk points, dick wagging….”   I was never that good at being a punk.  I didn’t know the right bands.  I didn’t turn punk early enough.  I liked metal, or I didn’t like metal?  I was too crusty or not crusty enough.  Who could even keep track of all the criteria for being punk?  I quit caring.  But Jessie writes about punk in this broad inclusive way that seems more intent on spreading the ideals of punk to a bigger audience, rather than pigeonholing exactly what is or isn’t punk.  Maybe it’s the way she writes about it, or maybe after all these years it’s the punk mafia she writes about pulling me back in.

I get why this is one of Pioneers Press’ favorite zines.  She’s a fantastic story teller.  She writes about important issues like gender and orientation in a conversational (rather than confrontational) way.  When she writes about depression or lost friends, your heart hurts.  I dropped out of the zine world for a long time because I couldn’t seem to find a well written zine that I identified with.  (And maybe in part because I didn’t want to “give blood for practice,” it felt like I was bleeding all the time already.)  I’m glad I came back in time to find this one.

I have been reading a zine called Reckless Chants by rustbeltjessie and I love it so much! I take it with me on long mind numbing bus journeys and it feels like a friend. I only have 2 issues and I’ve pretty much read them, her writing is so powerful and some of it makes me cry because of how much I can relate. Going to NW Zine Fest tomorrow and I hope to find more issues.

I’m obsessed with collecting and telling stories. It’s what I do – it’s why I do a zine, why I write fiction, why I write songs. I think people have a tendency to let other people’s stories speak for them. Rather than writing down their own stories, they read zines or listen to records and say, ‘I don’t need to write my stories down because these people did it for me.’ But you can’t depend on other people to tell your stories for you. No matter how closely you relate to someone else’s words, no one can ever tell your story for you. And so I tell my stories and those of my friends over and over, whether anyone wants to hear them or not.
—  Rust Belt Jessie, Like Burned Out Bulbs on a Ferris WheelReckless Chants 20: A Field Guide to Vanished Things

Received a copy of Reckless Chants yesterday, it was really great, and it made me feel very restless. Thanks, Jessie! Get a copy here!

As a side note, I’m sorry but I won’t be mailing out most of the current orders until Wednesday. I am swamped in homework. I think it will be time to get someone to help me run this soon! Thank you all for all of your orders and support, you are rad! <3