Laura Relyea


Ke$ha is as Ke$ha does


Ke$ha brims with ambition. It rolls and boils over the sides of her kitten-glittered dreams. Ke$ha, please be an unstoppable force—a volcano, a tsunami, an avalanche—pick your element, Ke$ha. Look for solutions everywhere. Solve mathematical proofs in your sleep.

Ke$ha, I imagine you lying fetal in a bed that is not your own. I imagine your fingers furiously tapping on a Ti-83 calculator covered in Lisa Frank stickers. In high school you giggled and doodled through calculus. You exhausted your teachers and stared out of windows.

Ke$ha, you're built for big things.

Ke$ha can be hazardous. Birthed from long line of bloody fisted scalping slayers—Ke$ha often forgets things like limits and her diminutive frame.

These violent animals from which she was birthed fell victim to a cornucopia of temptations—royal ruby stained cherries, plums full of scarlet, cascades of orange nectarines and apricots. Ke$ha inherited their weakness. It is in her blood.

Ke$ha burns the skins of peaches. She casts them in the fire and counts to one hundred and three. She grabs them out bare handed. She gobbles them up in an indulgent and passionate fury.

Ke$ha is mostly disciplined.

Ke$ha is a cowboy in the center of a panicked herd—lasso raised high. She whispers incantations under her breath:  the wind to guide her lariat around the cattle's heavy veined necks, for God to take her nightmares away.




Ke$ha and I Frolic In The Backyards of Our Neighbors


It takes twenty-three minutes to twist and weave the peonies into satisfactory crowns. Their bulbous sepals balance delicately against our foreheads—descended halos of amaranth, fandango, and carmine. We are the sovereigns of your backyard, Ke$ha and I. Imagine us barefoot and sheathed in white eyelet. We reign over the firefly twilight with hushed laughter. You can spot us in the distance, breaking apart pinecones and making wishes on their brittle corpses. We play croquet and badminton, and douse or bellies in dandelion wine. Darkness descends and we continue our antics—cartwheeling through beds of clovers.




Ke$ha and I Never Play the Victim


If anyone will survive the zombie apocalypse it's me and Ke$ha. This is a certainty for a couple of reasons: 

1. We are as formidable as any Amazon warrior. 
2. Our capability to harness group-think.

I don't care how high the odds are stacked against us. How many dependants we claim on our tax forms when the dead walk the earth, or if our husband's rotting ash mouths are clamoring to consume us. I don't care if one of us can only survive a few days without expensive medications. Ke$ha and I will go full RAMBO on your zombified asses! We will wield machetes and handguns, smear mud on our bodies and subdue sentience. 

What I'm saying is: Ke$ha and I will never lose our humanity. For that we will be worshipped. 




Ke$ha Alights!


KE$HA you make my insides feel like !!!¡¡¡!!!¡¡¡!!!¡¡¡!!!¡¡¡ -- which means either I'm jumping up and down for joy or I'm very bad at morse code! Good thing we are not soldiers, Ke$ha—our unbridled enthusiasm would either get us both mortally wounded or would end every war! Good thing we don't believe in war, Ke$ha—we believe in water fights instead! Ke$ha, let's build a slip-n-slide 100 yards long, let's set it up in the backyard between two aggressive sprinklers! Let's fill up 563 waterballoons and throw them at the cars passing through the neighborhood! Good thing we don't believe in neighbors—we are surrounded by strangers or undiscovered friends but nothing between! Good thing we don't believe in grey area Ke$ha—it's been the same since the notes we passed to boys in homeroom: it is either Yes! or No!