Slime is both primordial and synthetic, shapeless but slippery, goopy and gross but you can’t look away—you may even have to touch. I had never sung in front of an audience, or written or produced songs before, but on October 3, 2020 I performed a concert “SLIME LIVE” of my ten-song pop album “SLIME SEASON 2020.” I began writing and producing the album in May 2020 after a creative fellowship, during which I experienced depression and imposter syndrome, terminated early due to the pandemic leaving me jobless; and thereafter I was dumped over text message. Heartbroken and living with my mom, I recalled what it was like to be creative as a kid—silly, crass, and free. Being in love taught me to share my vulnerable, disgusting, and gooey parts with another person, and becoming Slime Queen taught me to find power and catharsis in sharing those parts to the world, no matter how off-key or poorly produced.

For “SLIME LIVE,” I provided green Jell-O shots, green glow sticks, and a splash zone (via water guns). I distributed lyrics zines designed by roommate/artist/writer Simon Wu, splashed with green food coloring. I also dressed in lime green. The color scheme and textures were a homage to Nickelodeon’s slime, a motif of my childhood—a time when I created without regard for perfectionism or prestige. I performed, occasionally lip syncing, the album in order. My friends and I sang into the Prospect Park night, “What is lovable about me but my cute face and wet wet pussy!” The audience and I shot water guns at each other, a form of playful yet visceral intimacy that transcended not only social distancing, but also the rigid divisions that institutions often make between artist/author and audience. I invited recent Hinge dates and the one I had the strongest crush on actually came. I was moved and mortified.