Oh, the places you will go...

Rhysand: You could try rubbing it on certain body areas and I might come faster.

Me:

Basically

Bring cash. Most of the vendors can’t do credit cards.

WATER BOTTLE. Luckily there were free water stations at my pride but I don’t know if that’s universal.

Bring a bag for all the random stuff people give you.

If you have sensory sensitivities or anything, bring headphones and download something soothing in advance. There probably won’t be a quiet place, but find someplace that’s less loud and take a moment to rest if you’re feeling overwhelmed.

There will be lots of free hugs. Most people will be very nice if you don’t want hugs. Instead of a “hugged by x group” sticker, I got a “boundaries respected by x group” sticker.

It’s a little shocking if you’re pretty sheltered. There will be people wearing the bare minimum. There will be people wearing less. You get used to it pretty quickly. (Everyone I saw had at least underwear on, but there were people completely topless, including people with breasts)

They might have very loud music playing at the entrance to drown out protesters. It’s actually a little quieter inside.

Your cell phone may not work very well, even if you should have service. There are a lot of people. I was able to make and receive calls, but I couldn’t access the internet or anything.

Aries: Sailor Mars, Xena, Arya Stark, Olivier Mira Armstrong, Tarene

Taurus: Katniss Everdeen, Mikasa Ackerman, Ellen Ripley, Michonne, Peggy Carter, Kate Beckett

Gemini: Buffy Summers, Sarah Connor, Jessica Jones, Sailor Mercury, Barbara Gordon

Cancer: Jean Grey, Sailor Moon, Carol Peletier, Astrid Hofferson, Brooke Davis

monday’s daughter is a copper being. she is the strange wistfulness of used books and dark circles under russet eyes that are more enigmatic than lost sleep. she is brown lipstick smeared on her front tooth and old perfume bottles that remind her of amber and stone.

tuesday’s daughter is silver hellfire, a valkyrie in her own right. she is marble skyscrapers, the clean, milky blue sky offset by the bruised tones of an uncontrollable flame. she is loud bracelets that serve as her armor and piercing eyes for swords. she is clouds yet to form and storms yet to ravage.

wednesday’s son is wet sand and black ink. he is crooked calligraphy and bamboo sticks that collect themselves in mishaped glass vases. he is kafka on the shore but the whimsy is wasted on him. he is centuries grown within a millennial born yesterday and somehow through the weight of the world, he holds on to questions unanswered.

thursday’s son is the gentle tones of rotting earth in old growth forests. budding trees against the unfurling of storm clouds, daffodils still glistening with raindrops. wisteria and smoke color his fingertips, bleeding the scent of musty, abandoned log cabins. he is self destructive but not without a tragic smile, his accent that of foreign tongues with vowels the sound of redwoods falling.

friday’s daughter has a mind like a diamond, a disco ball reflecting the colors of the flashing dark and lives in infectious whispers. she is cold mint tea, forgotten in the rush to leave the world behind in favor of music that pulsates to your very core. she feeds off neon signs blaring into the night and her breath is invitingly toxic. her eyeliner is winged to be sharp enough to cut skin and her afternoons are non-existent.

saturday’s son is honeycomb, pomegranate seeds and raw meat; he is earthquake tempers, wordless lullabies and a body full of stories. his lips are glossy, too red to be natural, and his bruised knuckles are lattice cobwebs of capillaries. he doesn’t smoke but in his pocket there will always be a golden lighter, a flick away from burning the sunsets down.