Coyote’s Thoughts

I always kept my hair short. Not for fashion, not for ease—but because of an old folk tale I once heard: trauma lives in the hair. That every inch holds memory, that every snip lightens the weight we carry. So I cut mine often. Chopped it back the moment it started to brush my neck. It was my ritual. My release. A quiet way to shed what I couldn’t speak out loud.

Then one morning, my son—barefoot and still wrapped in his cartoon blanket—looked up at me and said, “Mom, will you grow your hair out? I’ve never seen you with long hair.” His eyes were so gentle. So curious. Not demanding, just… hoping.

And in that moment, something in me shifted. I realized healing doesn’t always have to be about letting go. Sometimes, it’s about holding on—to what matters most.

High Hopes and Space Probes

So there I was, outside, absolutely baked out of my mind, staring at the stars like they owed me rent. The night sky was doing its usual thing—quiet, sparkly, mysterious—and I was having one of those deep, why-are-we-here moments. You know, the kind that only hit after three bong rips and a long day of procrastinating real life.

And then I saw it.

A tiny light, cruising across the sky all smooth and confident. Probably a satellite, right? But then my brain was like, hold up, Chanel. What if it’s not a satellite? What if that’s, like, aliens? What if they’re just chilling up there, watching me butcher “reality” with every inhale?

That’s when the paranoia-slash-curiosity spiral began.

In my head, the light stops. Full brakes, no signal. And suddenly, it’s not just a twinkle anymore—it’s descending. Quick. And it’s bright. My chest tightens, and my brain’s like, You’re about to meet extraterrestrials, sis. Better act cool.

Then—boom. Spaceship. Not even subtle. This thing just materializes out of nowhere and parks itself right there, like the universe decided I was on the VIP list.

The door slides open, all dramatic and glowing. I’m frozen, gripping the bong like it’s a magical talisman that’ll save me. Then he steps out.

Okay, he. I don’t even know what to call him because this dude is giving main character energy. He’s not your typical alien—the gray, big-headed kind from low-budget documentaries. Nah, my guy is shimmering, like his whole body’s made of holographic glitter. And his eyes? Whew. They’re like mini universes swirling around, each one telling me, Yeah, I know all your secrets, Chanel.

He doesn’t talk—at least, not with words. Instead, I feel his voice in my head, which is kind of rude because I wasn’t ready for him to just hop into my thoughts uninvited.

“You’ve been waiting for this,” he says.

I blink, confused. “Um, waiting for what? My SHEIN order?”

He doesn’t laugh. Aliens, apparently, don’t do humor. Instead, he steps closer, and the air around him buzzes like the universe itself is hyped he showed up. “Dolores Cannon was right,” he continues, like I’m supposed to immediately connect the dots. “Other lives, other dimensions—it’s all real. You know this, don’t you?”

And honestly, I kind of do. Dolores Cannon was my jam. Her books? Life-changing. But hearing it confirmed by a space dude standing in my backyard was a whole new level of what-the-actual-hell.

“You’re not just this body,” he says, all profound. “You’re an infinite being, connected to everything. And now, your suffering ends.”

The way he says it, all serious and cosmic, makes me want to cry, but also maybe laugh because, like, what suffering? My only problem right now is deciding between sushi or ramen for my post-bong munchies.

But before I can say anything, he lifts his hand—or whatever aliens call hands. It’s glowing, pulsing, like he’s about to gift me some kind of galactic superpower. “Come with me,” he says. “To a place of light. Of understanding. You’re ready to know the truth.”

And suddenly, I’m floating.

Like, literally floating. The grass, the Earth, my whole backyard—it’s all falling away, and I’m just… drifting. The stars are so close now, I can feel their light brushing against me, warm and alive. It’s like the universe is giving me a hug.

The alien reaches for me, his galaxy-eyes locking onto mine. I’m about to take his hand and ascend to whatever enlightened alien paradise he’s got planned when—

CLUNK.

The bong tips over, and just like that, I’m back.

I’m not floating. I’m not in a spaceship. I’m sitting on the couch on my balcony, my hoodie pulled up over my head, staring at the sky like a stoner cliché. The only thing in the air is the smell of burnt weed, and the only light is a satellite, lazily drifting across the horizon.

I burst out laughing, so hard I almost choke. “Girl,” I whisper to myself, wiping tears from my face. “You need to chill.” My imagination is out here doing full laps around reality, and I’m just along for the ride.

But still, as I pack another bowl (because obviously, I didn’t learn my lesson), I glance at the sky again.

What if it wasn’t just my imagination? What if he’s still out there, waiting for me to be a little less high and a little more ready?

I blow out a cloud of smoke and grin. “Your move, glitter guy.”