Rosie Today

a love letter to all my friends: past, present, and future.

My first chosen conscious identity was being a friend. In other words, friendship saved my life, especially in early childhood when my household was tumultuous.

Jesus saved my life in college when my sex life was tumultuous, but more on that later.

Friendship is the first identity we get to build from scratch.

Some people say, “you can’t choose your family”; however, I disagree: I believe our souls chose our biological (or adopted) families when they chose our bodies. I believe our life path is predestined and determined. Your familial role is inevitable and bound to you. You can certainly evolve. I will always be the baby, the youngest Keating from my immediate lineage.

My earliest source of joy and enamoration in girlhood was friendship. My first friend, or first mirror, I could say, Annika Byrne, still lives in Tallahassee, where we met in the Sunshine Room at Growing Oak preschool. A three-year-old Rosie could already summon jealousy of my brother, Jack, who was assigned the Rainbow Room. Annika was a sweet, blonde Jewish girl with blue stone eyes and with every girl’s dream toy collection: Barbies and Bratz dolls galore. My parents somehow reasoned that those were too damaging to own, but not for me to play with if they were adjacent. Annika also had a vast collection of American Girl Dolls—I was eternally envious of that specific tier of girlhood.

Some of my earliest, happiest childhood memories were from the Tallahassee years, when the mossy magnolias cradled my swimming imagination. Strawberry Shortcake, Groovy Girls, Polly Pockets, and Hanukkahs spent at the Byrne household, where I was introduced to the magic of girlhood, religion, and boys. I crushed on Annika’s brothers, Harry and Luke, before I could understand what a crush was. I moved from Tallahassee to Wisconsin when I was six, and leaving my best girl behind was my very first heartbreak. I eventually tracked her down on Instagram around the time I started university—a casual stalking mission which might have been odd if it weren’t for the fact that our moms still keep up on Facebook. I was comforted by her social media presence, which confirmed she evolved into the specific type of effortless, Tallahassee alt cool girl who fronts a band, works at Urban Outfitters, casually hangs out at comedy and karaoke spots, and posts the kind of alt femme content that works particularly well when the girl behind the IG story has unapologetically handsome features (once a baddie, always a baddie).

Embarassingly, I have been going through a bit of a belated teenagehood in my development. My family looks at me as a delusional bitch. I’m certain that once I become super skinny and rich, they’ll stop calling me delusional.

I’ve been through an ego death. Now, I live comfortably in Atlanta, supplementing a lifestyle slightly beyond my means with a corporate job and a stock portfolio. This comfort has finally given me the space to explore girlhood in a way I couldn’t afford to as a teenager. The luxury of finding oneself, warping through time, ego, and the subconscious. I am a 24-year-old woman (girl). I’m a spiritual monotheistic Christian. I’ll save the religion discussion for another time. Focus on the word spiritual. God is omniscient. The more time I spend in Atlanta, the more I’m coming to know that god is a black woman, or something like that. #Blacklivesmatter

Women are a fascinating species, not paid enough attention to by our men or in the media. Women are sexualized, objectified, and put on a pedestal just to be compared for their beauty, bodies, and features.

Technically, I’m a young hoe. I’m definitely in my ‘holding it down’ bag—balancing the 9-to-5, tending to my home, keeping up social appearances, and making time to travel. Truthfully? I’m in recovery from a club phase, though the club phase never truly leaves you.

I consider myself a Buddha. A December baby with a Sagittarius stellium. Turquoise and gold gemstones. My top Spotify artists: cash cobain, future, drake, erykah badu/ probably some Marley Right now, I rock a long blonde bob with beachy waves and bangs tucked away behind a bright pink alo headband, a black lace Reformation top paired with Chrome Hearts jeans. I’m wearing my favorite purple camo hoodie. My face is covered in many freckles. It’s april which means Atlanta is officially hot. I cover my face in shades to protect my light blue eyes from the sun. My light complexion gets darker in the summertime.

My kitchen has become my sanctuary, the place where I’ve finally grown into the most mothering, nurtured, self-caring version of myself. As much as I LOVE staying inside, there is simply no greater pleasure than seizing a day, going outside, and being seen. and experimenting in the world. buying a sweet treat, or in my case, a multitude of as many treats as my heart desires. Going out into society gives me purpose and place.

I have been attempting to outrun girlhood by seeking perfection. flip-flopping between teenage flippancy and neurotic nurture discipline. 

I supplement the corporate haze with a borderline-obsessive shopping habit. My current fixation? I spend my Saturdays scouring local secondhand streetwear shops, hunting down designer pieces that feed my Y2K and 2016 90210 fever dream. There’s a certain art to flirting with fine shit while haggling for overpriced junk—all in the name of the aesthetic. My favorite finds are comically large designer bags at the right price. So far, I’ve amassed a collection of a Chanel gym tote, a checkered Vivienne Westwood shoulder bag, and a red Louis Vuitton baguette. When it comes to shoes, the chunkier the Isabel Marant platform, the better—they add height to my already chiseled calves and heavy quads. I save the quirky Margielas for the office or a Buckhead Michelin star outing; I have grown to appreciate the confused glance down at my feet when the unattuned eye wanders toward my ‘camel toes.’ My jewelry is a mix of over-the-top Texas thrift finds, though lately I keep it simple with a gold “stationed” chain, extended with a large 22K mother-of-pearl cross, a charm bracelet, and a baby G-Shock watch. No fit is complete without statement shades—the kind that contradict my bubbly face by emitting a silent caution that I don’t necessarily want to be spoken to.

In high school, I was the quintessential small-town, sweet, studious girl, secretly carrying the weight of an alcoholic father and an enabler mother. I didn’t know myself yet, largely because there was so little understanding or awareness coming from my parents. I never knew Jesus, but I sure as hell knew friendship—it was my critical escape. While I knew the sharp sting of insecurity, I mostly knew a profane adoration for the girlfriends who filled the void my parents couldn’t see.

Even in the dysfunction, my family had our rituals: weekly sitcom nights where we’d supplement the silence with The Simpsons. We’d gather for the Wednesday night lineup of Modern Family and The Middle, which paved the way for Thursday’s beefier NBC agenda—Community, Parks & Rec, The Office, and 30 Rock. But the truth? I always needed a girl by my side—though strictly in my phone. I would never have invited a friend to actually sit with my family during our comedy nights; those moments were intimate and, honestly, my favorite family time. Ice cream, popcorn, television, and friendship were all the nutrients I needed as a ten-year-old goofball.

I’ve noticed a pattern: I become what I hate, absorbing the personalities of friends like a sponge until they give me a good enough reason to cut them off. As I sink the final nail in the coffin of a friendship, there’s a twisted sense of peace—I feel exactly where God wants me, with no one left to distract me from myself. Sometimes girls sink their claws into you under the guise of sisterhood. It’s beautiful, really—disguised as daisies, jean shorts, river rafting, Dunkin’ runs, and cliff jumping. A picturesque trap.

In friendship, in sisterhood, I show up as a giver and a worshiper—and honestly, I still call that love. But looking back, how could I have expected some random teenage girl in Wisconsin to know how to hold my precious heart? It’s the same way I don’t expect any random boy in Atlanta to understand the simple math of it: how easy it is to love someone who actually loves you back.

Won’t I meet someone who loves me for me exactly as I am? Someone who finds my disorganized room and Spotify playlists to be fascinating? Someone who volunteers their presence in my disarranged life?

My waist is scrunched into baggy pink Alo cargos. The T-shirt is an orange Supreme. draped in my purple camo hoodie. a bathing ape. My ratchet blonde extensions make me feel untouchable in Atlanta; these frizzy faux inches magically cement my belonging in the city in a forest.

I am transforming. I have one more test left to pass. I’ve dominated all of life’s tests so far, and it hasn’t been easy. I destroyed everything that I knew in hopes of building it back up better

My best girlfriend in middle school, Jasmin, was half Brazilian. Talk about worship! There is a difference between worship and obsession. I wasn’t her satellite, though that is how I was perceived by undeniably jealous elementary school friends I had left behind, and probably the majority of our middle school.

Jasmine was perfect with her coffee-brown ringlet curls, which fell to her waist when she wanted them to. Her teeth were naturally straight, and her cheeks were etched symmetrically with dimples. Her eyes are as green as a mamba. She was undoubtedly the most gorgeous girl in a class of 500 kids. We met through our fourth-grade soccer team.

Friendship. It’s an easy topic to write about (my best memories). My friends are super easy to talk about since I had hella cute lil friends growing up, and I outgrew them all. It’s totally normal, and that’s what I know (we all have to start somewhere).

Everyone loved Jasmin more than me for sure, which honestly didn’t faze me too much at the time because she was my best friend and I genuinely loved her so very much! We had fun playing together, whether we were taking snap selfies, dressing up like Miley, shopping at the mall, playing soccer, or fishing in a pond. WE HAD A BLAST. We bought matching hot pink Under Armor sweatshirts and cut-off tanks that said “no past, no future” from Forever 21. We bought a kiddie pool for her backyard, where we tanned, took snap selfies, and listened to “Imma Be” by The Black Eyed Peas. We insta-stalked the pretty soccer girls from a rival team who did nothing wrong other than be pretty and good at soccer, and from Kaukauna, which was a rival to Neenah since both towns were “well to do” and had promising high schools in both athletics and academics. We danced, giggled, and GEEKED about GOD KNOWS WHAT. She texted cute boys in the grade, and I’d look over her shoulder, equally bewildered and entertained by the imagination of what it would be like to have a boy talk to me.

JUST BECAUSE WE’RE GOOD FOR EACH OTHER, DOES THAT MEAN IT’S LOVE?

None of the endings were my fault, so that feels pretty good since it’s sanity-affirming.

Fast forward to Spring of 2026 (today). My best friend is Lorlei. My friend Garrett introduced us in Piedmont Park on a beautiful Saturday. Garrett is a farmer. I shop his produce every Saturday, which is super dope. He grows the best kale and most flavorful green onions. Garret gives me the entire bucket of colorful leftover zinnias at 1:00 pm every Saturday when the market ends. I take my loot of various greens, root vegetables, and zinnias to my neighboring kitchen and begin to tear at the kale, so fresh, the microscopic insects crawling on the leaves tend to affirm me more than they scare me.

My first conversation with Garrett was in early June. I do not recall whether he asked, or if I just wanted to tell him my Saturday plans:

“I’m going to a Hunger Games party tonight!” I exclaimed enthusiastically. Garrett responds, “Ohhhh yeah? We all live in a dome. It’s a simulation.”

Our blue eyes lock. Neither of our eyes moves. I see myself. Aquamarine, lacey mist. Garrett became family in that moment. A conspiracy theorist farmer from Jackson Lake, GA. His town is full of redneck bearded republicans, and he is not like the rest, but somehow he survives. His sun is in Aquarius, my Aquarius is rising. We both knew we had God on our side. We agree God talks to us, and we are psychos. Garrett is totally in love with me and doesn’t hide it. Rather, Garrett totally creeps on me. He is 40 years old – “Unc”, as I refer to him to Christiane behind his back, though I’d unashamedly say it to his face too. In a nutshell, he’s a total “Hipster Millennial Farmer”—an alien—and ABSOLUTELY hilarious! He’s from Outer Space. His tie-dye t-shirts are guaranteed to mesmerize. Homie lives with dirt under his fingernails, and I love how his fingers, dirt-gripping, grow God’s crops.

He introduced me to Lorlei, noting that she speaks Spanish, which he knew about because I occasionally practice with his Mad Hatter counterpart, Eder. I turned around from the agricultural street mop, which is what Garrett calls his produce stand. Behind me stands a woman wearing a white trench coat, olive-green leggings, white Arc’teryx sneakers, and an earth-brown wool sock. She told me how she is ethnically Spanish and just moved to Atlanta from New York. Lorea grew up in Greenwich, Connecticut. Firstborn child to a psychopathic, narcissistic mother, though I learned this detail at a later point in time over Southern Heirloom BBQ in Sandy Springs.

She’s culturally Spanish in a specific Manhattan way. She grew up with wealthy parents in the manicured world of Greenwich, CT. The Fashion Institute of Technology brought her to the City. Lorlei brings a distinct, highly unique brand of Connecticut-meets-Manhattan energy that I couldn’t help but find totally charming. Her Spanish roots are certainly responsible for her smart, sweet, snarky, and obviously Greenwich-coded personality. I instantly liked her. I love that she is good at selecting the perfect wine (preferably from organic grapes) and knows the names and flavor notes of dozens of cheeses.

She’s 35 and a self-aware millennial, entrepreneurial home-owning girl boss with an indie past. Lorlei is in a gay Charlotte (oxymorons, I know) phase of life right now, though she noted that all four Sex and the City ladies are far too simple for any one of them to represent anyone. Her young, soft features, kind hazel eyes. pale, round face, illuminating innocent girlhood, albeit with a heavy past which confronts her now, presented through a new city and a fortuitous past, propelling her into the right energy to form her web.

Today, April 12th, 2026, I hung out with Qishanda—aka the Spiritual Loc— who is a great friend of mine, whom I met through the Yoga community. Culturally crip and hailing from Rosenrantz, Los Angeles, Qishanda will make it known that her heart and soul belong to Compton. Qishanda and I have a friendship that has already seen it all, despite us only knowing each other for about a year. She’s a fitness instructor, and while I was initially drawn to her immaculate bad bitch energy, it was her sweet, feminine voice that really lured me in. She’s also really tough, navigating an entrepreneurial career in fitness, photography, and film. I admire how she holds space for her divine feminine through self-knowledge; Qishanda brings the friendliest, golden retriever Leo energy to every event and is the most outgoing person I’ve ever met. You can count on her to chat to strangers like they’re her best friends in the world. Her wellness events are always fun (and unpredictable)—she brings the energy! Come correct, throw some ass, and balance your chakras. Qishanda’s Goddess playlist blends Lizzy Jeff, Erykah Badu, Sade, Solange, though her Kendrick, Nipsey, and Jay-Z worship present as Freudian slips of the personality. Definitely do not play a Drake song in front of her, or she will call you out.

I showed up to yoga in the park in the Fourth Ward twenty minutes late on a sunny April morning.

“You’re the whitest, latest one, Rosie!” Qishanda yells from across the park. “Rosie, you’re COLORED!”

I giggle and hop into a mini-jog, balancing my life in my arms: a yoga mat in a navy leather case slung tightly over my right shoulder and my heavy Chanel gym tote fastened under my left, while a sequined leopard keychain, a cold-brew mason jar, and my iPhone Air are magically juggled in my two small hands.

I embrace Qishanda and am comforted by her warm skin, familiar scent, toothy smile, and witty remarks. I smile and don’t try to hide the fact that I love when Qishanda points out the behaviors that would paint me as black.

We started the session, and I took the opportunity to acclimate myself to the feminine energy in the space, pulling out my Tarot cards to offer a collective reading for the three women in front of me. Qishanda then led us through a slightly strenuous, highly stress-releasing yoga flow set to a jazzy R&B, neo-soul, and trap soundtrack. After we flowed, I felt tranquil and fluid in my body. I found myself twerking my booty up and down to Future and Jhené Aiko’s “Happiness Over Everything” while holding an Alpine twist.

I am currently reading Love by Toni Morrison. Moving from Wisconsin to the South was the best thing I could have done for my ancestors. I recently learned that I come from generational poverty and that my scrappy ancestors were Irish potato famine refugees. explains the exhausted heinousness which I would use as a nutshell phrase to describe my childhood.

I am white, but I feel represented among people of color. Generational poverty in the bloodline must create the palpable soul recognition that I can feel when I am with black people. Some black people recognize me right away as a sister, while others are alarmed by my beaming blonde and blue-eyed combination, which I have learned summons implicit racism, though my intention is far from it. It’s this reaction that made me realize my work hasn’t even started. If I want to be embraced in the black community, I have to pay my way in! No matter how much I believe I have paid my dues spiritually? The 3D world is a different story—each decisive action so far has brought me closer to God.

This brings me to the tale of Wicked Wolf and Ann Elizabeth. . .

spilled champagne from the balcony after an Ohio State Rose Bowl win

three white bitches

implied racism

One from the north, two from Mississippi, these experiences vastly shaped our different interpretations of racial dynamics.

I’m in Le Bon Nosh in Buckhead, and I pull up and parallel park my ’05 Lexus ES 330. I see the signs: 808 means it’s time for me to go to Hawaii. I’ve also been seeing 818 and had ephinay today, April 13th, that Buckhead is real LA energy. As I write this from the patio, keeping an eye on Sexy Lexy (my car), since I am only staying here for an hour, and thought I’d take my chances with avoiding parking and gambling fees, since all the signs so far have told me I am very much in alignment. I ordered a matcha latte with salted honey syrup. The cashier hands me number 13 for the table, which I decide will be the round top outside, closest to the Sun.

Buckhead is crawling with privileged white wealth. I can’t help but feel a nagging annoyance at the wasted potential. What I would do if my daddy were a dogmatic lawyer with a Buckhead mansion. Lorlei is coming to meet me. The two of us are foxes on the hunt, from the same herd with different prey. My prey? a golden ticket to Hollywood. Lorlei’s prey? the source energy to satisfy her intuition that portals might be real. . .

Which reminds me that Qishanda ridiculously claimed she is going to law school to become an injury lawyer and will be relying on ChatGPT to pass the bar. “Personal injury? Call the LOC.”

seven of cups: opening up so many portals at once and accepting that a few of them will HAVE TO STAND STILL.

I am a fish with my heart in my hand and some coin to spend! Seriously, what’s holding me back? I’m narrowing my responsibilities so I can alchemize the most important into greater abundance. My matcha latte is an ample afternoon supplement. disability sure is sweet.

Celestine prophecy. I don’t think I need to read books like The Artist’s Way and The Alchemist because those ideas are literally encoded into my DNA. deep breath.

Lorea says her nervous system feels safer in ATL than NYC, and her nervous system is highly activated as she is in a “dark night of the soul” phase of life following her failed engagement with a high-profile asshole and Vietnamese chef, Mateis. She notes that her nervous system is activated, which I think is the same thing as Anxiety. She is currently working on startup contractor work, so as we sit at the cafe and I write, she overthinks her millennial-style texting with a chiropractor named Byron, who has a pregnant fiancée. I tend to want to fix people, or just offer my advice as a sign that I care, so I offer empty solutions to which she responds in a high-pitched neutral tone, saying she cannot stretch right now because she is hypermobile, and the doctor said that even stretching is off-limits.

Lorea and I are Larakin right now. I want to text her “I love you” from across the patio bar. She shakes her head while texting Byron, the chiropractor with a heart of courage and a soul with a wish for a viral moment on his heart.

I am a baby Katniss in the Atlanta forest. Rather than a bow and arrow, my body is protected with a pink heart-strapped Michael Kors purse. French hymns, champagne lights, broke.

AE is my favorite mirror. AE is a pretty blonde with very Slavic features. She has naturally catty, cerulean-blue eyes, full lips, and a tiny, slightly upturned nose. Raised in Mississippi with strict catholic parents, she is the eldest of five. Like me, AE is a 00s baby. She’s a smart, party girl, not to be reduced in intelligence due to her fun side. AE doesn’t lack emotional or spiritual depth. She and I spent our early twenties traipsing through Buckhead like it was Oz and we were Dorothy: two twins checkered in our mutual understanding of blonde ambition. Our souls are perpetually intertwined in a Western fantasy.

AE introduced me to the city of New Orleans. It was Labor Day, 2025. The alcohol gets us LOOSE fr. AE is clever and sly like a fox. sweet and caring with a big heart. sexual freedom is her escape from her highly intelligent yet paradoxically religiously trapped catholic relatives.

I start texting all my friends, messy drunk like heyyyyy queen, I miss u

what are you doing tonight?

you wouldn’t want to . . . .maybe. … mjq?