Yeah, You Ain’t Getting Rid of Me

A soft place for loud thoughts.

Look. I already have one newsletter. It’s loud. It’s important. It’s dressed up in metaphorical heels and screaming about the patriarchy with a slice of toast in one hand and a reference to bell hooks in the other. It is structured. She has themes. She has drama. She has seasonal arcs.

This is not that.

This is me in a dressing gown with biscuit crumbs in my bra. This is the corner of the internet where I sit cross-legged on a digital floor and ask, “Does anyone else feel like their spine is full of bees and also maybe God is ignoring your DMs?” Not everything has to be a manifesto. Sometimes it’s just a brain leak in Helvetica.

I made this second Substack because I needed a place to write without the expectation of resonance. Without formatting everything like it’s being graded. Without wondering if I’m contributing to “the discourse” or just saying things because my brain is itchy. This is where the misfit thoughts go. The ones too soft or stupid or swampy for Taboo + Toast. The ones that smell like diary pages and emotional leftovers.

If Taboo + Toast is the show, this is backstage. No script. No lighting. Just me eating hummus with a fork and thinking about the girl I used to be in 2017. Or that random time I saw someone cry in a Wetherspoons and felt weirdly seen.

Expect half-finished thoughts. Rambles with no punchline. Entire articles that might just be three sentences and a quote I saw once on a gravestone. Think Notes App but with paragraph breaks and slightly better self-esteem.

This is not a brand. This is a blurt.

Welcome to Jessica, Actually. The place where I write things just because I want to. And because I’m scared I’ll forget who I am if I only write for applause.

I’m an Introvert, But I Like Monologuing (So Here We Are)

I am what scientists would call a certified yapping introvert. I don’t want to talk in the group chat, but I do want to deliver a 47-minute monologue about my latest existential revelation. Alone. Uninterrupted. Ideally without anyone making eye contact.

This newsletter is that. A sacred space for my inner rambler who wears noise-cancelling headphones at Tesco but still wants to tell 600 people how capitalism made me cry while slicing a cucumber. This is me talking to myself, but with better font choices.

I’m not really a “voice note” girl. They feel too… wet. Too emotionally naked. Too risky. I don’t like hearing myself breathe. What I do like is this: writing like I’m narrating a documentary about my own emotional weather. Putting my thoughts in neat little boxes. Tapping out a spiral until it turns into a sentence that makes me feel like I’m making sense again.

This isn’t content. This is communion. A group chat with the right kind of people. The ones who get it when I say my period feels like a spiritual betrayal or that I once cried over a fig and couldn’t explain why. People who understand a metaphor without needing an asterisk. People who know I’m not being dramatic, I’m being accurate.

It’s not polished. It’s not planned. It’s just a digital brain room. A quiet place for my loudest thoughts. A space where I can throw half a poem, a petty observation, and a deeply niche complaint about how spoons should be smaller and no one would question it.

So here I am. Writing out loud, quietly. Talking to you the only way I know how: long-form, semi-feral, and slightly poetic by accident.

What to Expect (Or Don’t. I Don’t Know Yet.)

Look, I won’t lie to you. I’ve got about 47 projects quietly screaming in the background right now. Some of them are career moves, some are secret launches, some are just overly ambitious Google Docs with names like "brain go beep."And in the middle of it all, I needed a space to talk about it. Or whisper about it. Or write about it at 1:43am in a way that feels like I’m leaving messages in a bottle for people who overthink their WhatsApp replies.

So this is going to be like an open diary. But make it mildly existential. Slightly feral. Definitely main character coded.

Expect:

• Diary-style rambles

• Short, chaotic essays about things that do not matter but also absolutely do

• Life updates disguised as philosophy

• Soft thoughts. Loud opinions. Petty genius.

• Bookmarks from the inside of my brain

• Niche thoughts that didn’t quite fit in Taboo + Toast, but still deserve a soft couch and a blanket

This is the kind of newsletter you don’t need to be in the mood for. It’s here for you when you’re spiral-reading at 2am. When you’re eating noodles on the floor. When your brain feels like a tab you forgot to close. You don’t have to read every post. You just have to know it’s here. A weird little pocket of internet intimacy with no pressure to perform.

This is the space I wish I had a few years ago. Something chill. Something human. Something unhinged but weirdly grounding.

Anyway, welcome. Put your phone on Do Not Disturb. We’re spiralling.

And no, I’m not fixing the vibe. I’m documenting it.