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Hey hi hello you beautiful humans you!

We just launched PULP PUBLIC SCHOOL last week and we’re so damn happy and proud.

Our inaugural faculty is brilliant, funny, and offering amazing insights, skills, and love-yourself wisdom that you simply can’t find anywhere else.

I’m so goddamn thankful for every body and brain and thrumming heart that helped us get here.

Living this life is not for the faint of heart, but you are its lifeblood.

Ever and always worth the squeeze,
Katie (+July)

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We just won a big fancy accolade! PULP was chosen out of 1800 companies as one of ten start-ups by The Entrepreneurial Dream Project!

⬇️ Look how powerbitch we are! ⬇️

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Hey hi hello and (dare I virtually utter it?!) happy summer…!

We hope you and yours and everyone in your universe is as safe and sane as humanly possible. We’re all feeling a bit bananas over here at PULP HQ, but swimming and baking and writing and screwing and protesting and revolutionizing as much as we can muster to offset the profound COVID blues.

We wanted to drop a line and say WE MISS YOU! We’ve been taking a publishing hiatus while building a brand new siteit’s so beautiful, don’t ya think?!—and building our online education arm

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We’ve got all kinds of classes from erotic embroidery (taught by PULP’s own July Westhale to the art of post-production editing by artist and performer Nico Grelli, to Writing Like a Dyke with queer author Ana Valens, to tackling the sex-talk with your kids with Steph…

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// illustration by Axiiyah

Bonjour you dear PULP-ers of great mind, spirit, and sex magic,

Holy moly, what a ride. We started PULP a year ago — a fledgling bud in hard-packed internet soil—and have grown into a goddamn hydra-ed peony. Impossibly petal-ed, rare, tenacious, and should any one blossom be torn asunder by one of feminism’s innumerable adversaries and tumble to the ground? Well its sheer fertility, strength, and intelligence would generate an entirely new peony, capable of exacting the same brilliant growth, the same beauty, the same symbiosis with its surrounding comrades.

(Sorry for the odd peony metaphor — they only bloom 6 weeks of the year and they make me want to weep for their shaggy-headed, fleeting magnificence.) …

Any pain lasting more than a few minutes will leave a trace in the nervous system. So what if pain was synonymous with your existence?

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// Sam Burriss

Dearest sweet humans of the PULP universe—

We find ourselves on the cusp of what will hopefully be—fingers, toes, and heart-strings duly crossed, our chests tight with anticipation—an absolutely remarkable chapter in American history where our race-based violence will be admitted and abolished.

And amid all this beautiful rage and protest and political upheaval, we crossed the threshold of our Kickstarter — we did it. Together.

We’re deeply thankful for every one of you who gave your support to PULP’s new vision for PULP PUBLIC SCHOOL and deeply thankful for every one of you that didn’t as well! Because there is a goddamn revolution going on right now, one that the majority of white folkx are just “waking up” to, staggering to their feet to shout down a system they’ve benefitted from for more than 400 years. …

Dearest darlings of tender heart and rageful spirit—

We’re here in the thick of it, like you, like your family and friends and the throngs of hot-throated bellowing protestors all around the goddamn nation.

Here at PULP we’re trying our damnedest to be a small but effervescent light — a place to shine, a place to seek solace, a place to sit the fuck down and read some very necessary and very uncomfortable-making stories.

We’re trying to hold up Black voices and stories — not just now in national tumult, but every day — because death shouldn’t be the catalyst for justice; equality should be our baseline. …

Blocking access to reproductive health sacrifices the vulnerable to the “greater good” of the wealthy, white, and male.

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// modified from Javier Hernández Hammad

The notion that an unwanted pregnancy isn’t an “essential” issue or problem has terrifying and tangible repercussions, yet here we are. The rhetoric around much of this pandemic has been a bastardized binary running a ragged line down the middle of our lives in which we’re asked to decide what is necessary and what is sacrificable for the “greater good.”

And as per usual, women — especially poor women in conservative states — are bearing the brunt of this societal fallout; access to healthcare, doctors, contraception, and any means of abortion, medical or surgical, has fallen squarely on the chopping block. …

Dearest PULP-y humans—

My uncle died last week (not from COVID, he was old and sick and adversarial about Western medicine that would have saved his life), and I was wracked with grief. Not because of his death — although of course, I mourned at the Tommy-shaped hole now in the world — but because I believed there was not enough grief surrounding his absence.

I knew very little of his life outside of his role in my family which was fraught and eccentric if loving and kind. I felt like I’d swallowed gravel and millipedes — I was crawling with a horrible sensation — a kind of reckoning if I’m honest — that people fall from this earth, not back to grace but to oblivion. …

I hear my stomach scream audibly. I grow desperate. I consider the bushes. “I could crouch under that,” my addled mind offers.

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I ’m an anxious creature, a life-long nail-biter — red, wet swollen cuticles and the sharp click of teeth on teeth have been the muted but consistent orchestral backdrop to my existence; something akin to a Philip Glass score. It’s all nerves over here.

I worry about whether taking chicken eggs from beneath all those feather-tufted warm bottoms somehow breaks the hens’ hearts. I worry about my own mother, her beautifully wan face, and nearly translucent face strung with blue veins like so many fairy lights winking out their last illuminations in a paper castle.

I worry about hungry children, gay kids in Idaho, women in the south, the continent of Africa, and every beaten dog. …

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Hello, sweet lockdown-ed humans of my heart—

Holy shit, forever and ever. As a lifelong and dogged consumer of dystopian tomes and paperbacks, I feel strangely prescient, like my own living deja vu.

Do any of you know what I’m talking about?

It’s as though — while “unprecedented” rattles through the teeth and tongues of every pundit and schoolchild from Oakland to Amsterdam — I’ve somehow been here before.

My body remembers, even as the mind reels, the slow shadow that creeps without human touch. A population ravished by contagion. …


Katie Tandy

co-founding editor // // former co-founder | | writer. playwright. singer. nail biter. feminist. bibliophile.

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