Tessa is a strongly opinionated singer and musician living in New York. Her background is in classical piano, linguistics, computers, ethnomusicology, and Tibetan studies. She fronts Tessa Makes Love.

Robots are on her $hit list, and this blog is about not taking $hit from the machine.

A Story of a Song

“I Miss You.” I wrote it many years ago and somehow, it still has its own place in my heart. I was so excited about the guy! He was my perfect type. While being my perfect type, he was hurting me. He was arrogant. He was unfaithful. He was lecturing me on being square because I objected to him kissing other girls (in front of me, none the less). I remember thinking, “One day, he will understand. One day, one day, he will appreciate me and understand.”

And then I lost interest.

And then he died. Drugs.

I fully and completely forgave him. I wish him peace somewhere away from me.

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Girls, Books, and Lies

It started with an email from my high school best friend. She told me that our shared first boyfriend published a sci-fi trilogy.

The fact that he published a trilogy made me feel surprisingly warm and fuzzy, given how long I have not spoken to him and how we parted. The guy has achieved something sweet, good for him, good for the world I live in! But it’s not what shocked me.

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Misfucked

I made our fucking divine for a second.

I, I did that. You, you received it. You commented on how good the sex was.

Not. Fair.

It gives me cramps. Not the fact that you ended up being a special nobody seeking me out during special moments of your loneliness – but the fact that I exercised wrong judgment. I hastily beautified you. I eyeballed perfection and forced you in. I built a pedestal for you. I got so carried away with this phantom of your love that it still haunts me. As if it is real.

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Being Squashed for Being a Whore, Or…?

Irony: In high school, I fantasized about the existential, timeless beauty of being an Indian temple prostitute out of Siddhartha; a couple of years later, I was sitting in the back of a sex trafficker’s truck in Southern China, looking into his eyes, and his eyes were indescribably awful.

On that day, I avoided the path of a linguist / ethnomusicologist turned sex slave by an inch. Jumping out of his truck on autopilot saved my life.

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Fever

Fever. It's 7.30 in the morning and I am trapped inside an office cubicle, across the wall from the majestic American corporate skyline. Hating every second of it. I still refuse to believe that I've rejoined the regulars. That I respond to the corporate version of my...

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Tessa is a strongly opinionated singer and musician living in New York. Her background is in classical piano, linguistics, computers, ethnomusicology, and Tibetan studies. She fronts Tessa Makes Love.

Robots are on her $hit list, and this blog is about not taking $hit from the machine.