I drove back to the East Coast to check on my storage unit, grab a few warmer coats, and pick up a few shifts while I crash with friends. The plan was simple: a little serving gig to make some cash, maybe sell one of my paintings for a financial boost, and get a breather from the chaos of starting over. But life loves to humble me, and apparently, so does the economy.
The art market right now is absolute garbage. I have a lot of valuable work I’ve collected over the years, pieces I actually adore, but I figured I’d sell one I’m not totally in love with. Turns out a popular art dealer just held an entire auction of Vladimir Kush paintings three weeks ago, the same artist and signature as mine. So my timing was immaculate in the worst possible way. Life is funny like that: when the economy sucks, it doesn’t just suck financially— it sucks the joy out of beauty, too.
And yes, money doesn’t buy happiness. But financial stability? That buys sanity. Let’s not confuse the two.
Anyway, if you remember last week, I did, in fact, announce that I am F A M O U S, which is unfortunately still true. I used to be very well-known in my big, powerful city—everyone knew me whether they wanted to or not. Which is great when things are good, but not when you’re trying to quietly start over. So when I started applying for jobs again, I… left a few (okay, maybe a LOT) of details off my résumé. Nothing unethical, just enough to seem like a normal post-college girl trying to make rent and not a headline waiting to happen.
I landed an interview at a restaurant for a server position, in an area of the city I thought would know me a little less. A friend called in a favor. I showed up, hair tied back, minimal makeup, playing the part of someone who’d never been on the other side of the table before. I walk in, meet the general manager, and before I can even say “hi,” I can tell. She recognizes me.
Here’s the thing about hospitality: it’s a this side or that side industry. And I’ve always been on that side. Management, ownership, and the one who’s doing the hiring. So when you show up applying for a serving job, it’s like Kim Jong-un walking into Olive Garden asking for a W-2. The look on her face said it all.
I didn’t get the job.
I’ve had other offers since, but every one feels like it comes with strings. My career began as an assistant to a CEO and only went up from there— and as a young, beautiful, terrifyingly fertile woman, I’ve learned that ambition and attractiveness are apparently mutually exclusive. And yes, I could seek out female-led companies, and I do, but even that’s not foolproof. I mean, hell, I once had to cut off my college bestie after she tried scissoring me in my sleep and treating me like her sugar momma. Apparently, being hot and business-minded is most certainly a felony now.
In brighter news, though… I modeled again! I KNOW. It’s been forever since you’ve seen me in a magazine or on a runway, but this bad bitch (not an Instagram model, because I’m actually cool) is so back.
So, in preparation, they had my lashes done!
And yes, I know what you’re thinking—“Sheridan, your lashes are already perfect, why would you mess with them?” WELL, every other week, I am a complete dumbass who dyes her eyelashes at home using substances that could probably strip paint or kill your beloved cat. Also, black mascara and my sensitive skin don’t match; I look as if I just got off the field tackling someone. Which, by the way, I used to do. I played football as a kid—my nickname was The Beast. I once sacked a hefty boy who was nicknamed, The Fridge. I’ve been the same height and build since I was twelve. So whatever you’re picturing, yes, it’s correct.
I’m just a girl.
So before I lose my vision from harmful (and probably federally banned) chemicals, we got them done professionally. And now? They’re stunning. They feel so light, soft, and safe.
And maybe it’s poetic that my lashes finally look perfect while everything else feels like it’s falling apart. On that subject, let’s talk about panic attacks. I hate calling them that (it sounds too glittery), but that’s what they are. I don’t get them often, barely ever really— but when they come, they come hard. I haven’t had the most emotionally safe life; I dive into work every chance I get, and eventually, my body catches up and yells at me to take a couple of hours.
Last Wednesday was one of those nights. I’d had a brutal day, rejections, offers with strings, exhaustion, the kind of nothing-goes-right spiral— and I could feel it coming. I always can. It’s like this pressure building behind my ribs, the frog growing bigger in my throat, the cloud beginning to thunder in my head. I know I’ll need to be somewhere private soon, somewhere I can let it out for a few hours without disturbing anyone. But this time, I was staying at a friend’s house. And even though I tried to fight it, my chest started seizing like my ribs were trying to escape. I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t stop crying. It looks like I’m dying and trying to apologize for it at the same time.
I hate being seen in that state and avoid it at most costs. It’s raw, messy, it’s human. When it was finally over, I didn’t feel enlightened or healed. I just felt emptied out. Like my body was saying, “See, I told you so.” My body basically had to short-circuit to remind me I’m still in here somewhere.
And maybe that’s what the past two weeks have been about, being reminded.
The art sale that didn’t happen, the job interview that went sideways, my white-trash-at-home lash care, all of it just pushing me back to the same truth I keep skipping over: I’m still rebuilding. I need people in my corner. I need to not go almost blind out of sheer determination to do everything myself. Sometimes the smartest thing you can do is call a friend, someone like Nande at Revenge Studios, because survival doesn’t always mean hustling harder. Sometimes it just means letting someone else take care of you for a few hours.
That’s what survival actually looks like. It’s not the highlight reel, it’s the messy rerun you didn’t plan to watch again but somehow keep replaying because the drama, the lesson, the truth, is just too good to skip.
And speaking of reruns, I’ve been bragging a lot lately about my poetry (as I should—Sheridan The Great Guerrette, American Writer and Poet). So I thought I’d give you a little taste. Over the past few weeks, I redid my website; it’s much prettier now, and it actually reflects what I’m working on: music, writing, everything alive and current. You’ll find more of my poetry there, but for now, here’s one that’s always stuck with me.
I wrote Lipped Pearls while in a strange, nostalgic mood. It’s about the performance of womanhood, the loneliness of it, the constant disappearing act. To me, it’s the quiet space between survival and self.
So yeah, I missed last week’s episode, and I am really sorry I wasn’t here to write to you.
I also just needed to breathe. I needed to allow myself to be human.
But you already knew that about me. You’ve been watching me crawl through safe houses, botched interviews, and breakdowns like it’s a reality show with better lighting. You know I’ll make the economy sound poetic, the panic attacks sound cinematic, and the near-blindness sound romantic. That is just what I do, my God-given talent. You read, I unravel, and somehow we both end up entertained. 💋
So maybe next week I’ll finally sell the damn painting, or maybe I’ll hang it in my safe house’s living room as a monument to bad timing and great taste. Maybe I’ll take another job interview just to see who recognizes me first. Or maybe I’ll just keep driving, keep writing, keep turning my own mess and lessons into something worth reading.
And if you want to see what that chaos looks like when it’s dressed up and pretending to have its life together, go peek at sheridanguerrette.com. I finally updated it to match who I am now, still a little too ambitious, a little too emotional, and just self-aware enough to make it art. It’s part portfolio, part personality test, and very much me—equal parts business plan and beauty.
So don’t get too comfortable. I’ll be back next week with another story, another disaster, another reason for you to pretend you’re just here for the writing when we both know you’re really here for me.
Jokes aside, I want and need you in my corner.
xo,
Sheridan Guerrette
WhatSheridanSaid.com
Life Behind the Artist: Wed at 9/8C
