Juliet Naked springs from the forehead of Juliet ____ , a disillusioned, (early) 30-something, mentally ill mess living in Harlem, NYC, who has finally succumbed to her need for an outlet to semi-publicly rant against contemporary culture; the status quo; (most) people with babies; (most) people in general; and America’s revolting political landscape – as well as to tout good recipes involving cauliflower as a form of crust; shit she thinks about or creates involving art, music (jazz, blues, punk, rock, some folky shit), and literature; chasmic generational gaps; and the virtues of a well-placed semicolon. Juliet realizes she’s not Che, Banksy, Noam Chomsky, Nate Silver, Rachel Maddow, or anyone truly qualified to be speaking with authority about anything…and she’s OK with that. After an arduous uphill battle, she’s also accepted the fact that she’ll never be Madonna.
A former magazine editor cohabiting with her longtime female lover whom she hasn’t fucked in ages, Juliet isn’t afraid of capital letters or proper punctuation, but is terrified of millennials and people who watch “Keeping Up With The Kardashians.” Juliet struggles with addiction, depression, anxiety, suicidal thoughts, cynicism, malaise, laziness, and eating disorders – but doesn’t blame her parents or society for her fucked state of mind. Juliet has nothing to say – and more to say than will ever hold your interest. Juliet doesn’t give a fuck what you think of her or what she writes, unless, of course, you comment with something flattering to inflate her flaccid ego.
Juliet is hardly ever naked (anymore) outside of bathing contexts, but will probably play strip poker if she’s been drinking or you ask nicely. And shit, they’re your eyes.